


Inumbrate

by rapunzariccia



Category: Neverwinter Nights, Neverwinter Nights 2
Genre: Gen, Multi, more characters to be added with additional chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on West Harbor the morning after their annual Harvest Fair sees an unlikely adventurer take up the sword and cast out into the world for answers to questions she has only half-formed. A retelling of NWN2's original campaign, from beginning to (hopefully) end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I came about 7 years late to the party, but finally I got the chance to play NWN2 and thoroughly enjoyed it. While it was lacking in parts, I made up for that in my own head, and wanted to put the story down in words to explore my PC's character development, and to see if I could keep the atmosphere of the game in written form. With my other long-term fic on indefinite hold, I wanted to write fic alongside original things to keep my hand in, and I'm gonna try and stick with this.
> 
> By endgame, my PC was a Favoured Soul (12), Neverwinter Nine (1), Divine Champion (6) that worshipped Ilmater. I'll be doing my best to stick with the choices I made and reflect them in text.

The heavy fabrics she'd hammered up months ago to block the sun's earliest rays only did their job lazily, not even bothering to eclipse the orange glow of the celebratory fire outside. They did little to block the noise, too – screams and shouts coming from outside, and someone yelling for her to be _up, UP_ , outside her door, followed by heavy hammering at the wood. Groggy, still drunk on victory, she slipped from bed to find out what the commotion was about, what was so important that her father demanded she rouse from sleep and attend him. He'd never gotten her out of bed so late (or was it early?) before, and usually even Daeghun was conscious of any aches and pains she might be nursing. There was a goodly bruise risen already on her forearm, she noticed, and swung the door open to admit not her father, but her friends.  
“Oh, thank Mystra,” the wizardess breathed, and reached out to grasp the sleep-tousled girl tightly. “You're up, you're safe. We feared-”  
“What? What's going on?” Both Bevil and Amie stank of soot and fear, their eyes wide as though they hadn't bothered with bed after the celebrations. _If the Mossfields haven't accepted their losses yet..._  
“No one knows,” Bevil supplied as she wrested her arms back and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “The village is under attack; they came pouring in from the swamp only a short while ago, they're- tearing everything apart.”  
“And coming this way. There were one or two following us, that means they'll-”

Whatever was said next was lost in an exhausted haze. Cylle turned, retrieved her sweat-laden mail that had been discarded at the foot of her bed and pulled it on over her nightgown. No doubt she would regret that later, for the metal needed a good scrubbing – had done for months – and the weight felt almost too much for her still-aching shoulders, but there were more important matters at hand, and she was more than capable of bearing her hauberk for long stretches of time. The gown itself could be replaced if it could not be washed. Her boots were next, discarded in odd locations, and she tugged them on and laced them up as quickly as her hands could go. Bevil and Amie dithered in the doorway, he with his longsword and she with nervous fiddling fingers. Their urgency had transferred to their sleepy friend, who struggled with wakefulness even on the best of days and now did her best to wrestle the laces into a knot that wouldn't unravel easily. Other assorted pieces of armour and clothing strewn about her room, but no time remained for her to don them.  
“Ready,” she called, and then all three were at attention, marching down the stairs. Cylle was sure they looked a sight: three barely-adults with wide eyes and so little experience in a town that was under attack. The racket from outside now made sense, noise that had its roots firmly entwined with panic and fear, and she wondered how she could ever have mistaken it for jubilation.

No candles were lit, the hearth was cold, and her father was nowhere to be seen. His bow was missing from its usual spot in the corner, but her sword was left untouched – simple metal without inscription or gilded hilt, but sharp and capable of defending a life in the right hands. It was too far away for her to snatch up when the door splintered and swung inwards, and she found herself kicking a chair too hard in her attempt to get closer to it and further from the intruders. Its leg splintered and then she was throwing herself forward, away from the grunts and swings of their foe and the answering clashes of Bevil's clumsy sword work. A glance back saw that he was battlin dwarves, grey-skinned and burly and dangerous. Snatching her own weapon up, she joined the fray and put her point through the shoulder of the nearest and shortest man, pulled it free, stabbed again. The dwarf perished on her blade and she tugged it free, already looking for the next opponent, the next invader to die, and finding none.  
“Are you hurt?” Amie asked, and she shook her head.  
“Come, we have to go, we have to help- have you seen my father?”  
“Not since yesterday.”

Brother Merring was waiting by the entrance to her home with a box of medical supplies that was already run too low, and he seemed worn even at a single glance. The smell of smoke was thicker out here, and the dark sky seemed oppressive with the stars and moon blotted out by cloud and haze. He looked up as they exited, three pairs of eyes darting about here and there, and Cylle did not fail to notice that his robes were dotted with blood. “Thank the gods,” he started, and then seemed to think better of whatever he had planned to say. “There are plenty more of those beasts, if you three can still stand to fight. Every sword is needed; go to the southern bridge. I must stay. The wounded,” and he gestured weakly at bodies she had failed to notice before. It was too dark and her glance too quick to see the blood, but she could smell it, and knew that there was death in the air. A shiver ran through her, nothing to do with the cold, and wakefulness was with her all at once. “I must needs heal as many as I can and send them back to the fight. Head south. Georg is there, at the bridge, and he will be able to instruct you further. _Go_ ,” he urged, and then he was turning from them to once again kneel at the side of someone whose face was hidden by shadow. Bevil, Amie and Cylle shared a look that was full of emotion, and left the brother to his ministrations. If there were already bodies aplenty this far away from the entrance to the village, then no doubt there would be even more where the fighting was at its thickest, and dread had already coiled tight enough in Cylle's stomach for her to be unable to hang back. Thoughts of her father filled her head as they rushed over the bridge, and she was unable to push them aside.

Georg was waiting for them, looking for all the world a competent militiaman. He was barking orders at those standing near to him, his sword out and held at the ready for any foe foolhardy enough to try and bully their way further past him. The uninjured and infirm alike attended him; there was one of the Mossfields looking pale and stricken as he supported his brother, bleeding from a gash at the ribs. One of her friends sucked in a breath behind her. The land surrounding West Harbor could be harsh and unforgiving, and they had all seen their fair share of wounds and blood, but never on a large a scale as this. The air tasted of ash, and Cylle kept her mouth closed as firmly as possible as she shouldered her way forward. “The brother told us to report here.”  
“Mercy, you're here. Have you seen your father?” At her head shake, his expression grew troubled once more. “There's been no sign of him, and we'd feared the worst for you two. Still, if you're safe, we can hope Daeghun is, too – but we've no time for that now. I need you all further south than this, at the fore, if you can still stand and hold a blade. Don't argue,” he added, as Bevil opened his mouth and quickly shut it again. “I can't leave this part of the village exposed. There's too much going on for the militia to be organized easily. Head south, and if you see any able-bodied man or woman you drag them with you. I'll be just ahead or behind you, depending on how long you tarry. _Don't tarry_ ,” he finished, and left with his sword held to attention. His words lingered longer in the air than he did, and Cylle was beginning to feel the ache of exhaustion behind her eyelids once again. The bruise Wyl Mossfield had dealt her forearm wasn't the only injury she had obtained at the Fair; at some point she had hit her shin against something heavy, and despite the weeks of training at blades with anyone who would humour her, her arm was not used to holding her sword aloft. She squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her hands to press her palms against them as hard as she dared, and dropped them when she felt Amie's soft touch at her back.  
“We daren't wait any longer,” she said, and knew that her friend was right. There was fighting ahead of them, and people were crying out all around. The world had gone half-mad and not thought to update them with fear. She took a deep breath to steady herself, made a fist and let her fingers open once again to ease whatever small aches she could from her joints, and led her friends onward.

Though battles seemed to be fought everywhere they turned their attention, the closest was ahead of them – directly south, and taking up the entire path. Georg had no doubt slipped by, for he could not be seen. Cylle was trying to see if there was a different path around that was unblocked by people or charred timber and Bevil was trying to convince a shaken man to come with them when magic crackled through the air. It was strong enough to _taste_ , even, and she could not help her lip curling in distaste. At her side, Amie's back straightened, and then she was calling out. “Tarmas! Master Tarmas!”  
The wizard did not even turn to look at them. “Stay where you are, all of you. This is too dangerous, and only I-”  
“Oh, Hells to that,” Cylle heard her friend mutter, and then the girl was rushing past with her arms raised. “Master! I'm here, we can- _auuugh-_ ”  
Her scream reached a higher pitch than it had ever done before. Though no less a Harborman than anyone else who made their home here, Amie had never gotten on well with swamp life, and had been a frequent discoverer of boxed frogs, to her utmost displeasure. She screamed when she was introduced to the creatures, she screamed when she forgot to lace up her boots and tripped forward into marshy water or skinned her knees, and she screamed now as arcane fire blackened her skin and roasted her. The fire was bright and hot and she was quickly silenced, but the noise felt as though it echoed for much longer than it did. Only dimly did Cylle hear the wizard curse, and she did not notice Bevil calling her name until he shook her roughly by the shoulder. Too fixed on the scene was she: a friend she had known since girlhood slumped to the floor, looking as though she had crawled through the remains of a bonfire. She'd caught only a glimpse of the murderer: something humanoid, though taller and more sinewy than anyone she'd ever set eyes on before, and though she could be mistaken, skin that seemed mottled. Still, its appearance was not important, not when Amie lay dead on the floor and more and more faces were turning to her, demanding things of her. It took considerable effort for her to focus once more, and she shook her head as though waking from a dream.

“... waiting,” Tarmas was saying. “South, keep going, Georg's waiting--”  
Then Bevil was pulling her along, forcing her to use her feet or stumble to the ground and lay there uselessly. “I can walk,” she said, but he ignored her and kept a firm hand about her wrist; his sword was being half-dragged across the ground for it, too heavy to be held aloft with only one hand. He yelled something over one shoulder, not at her but at another straggler who shook their head and took off in the other direction, and then she was being shoved toward Georg shouting orders at his few gathered men. West Harbor was not a large village, but it still took a good ten minutes to cross from the centre to its southernmost tip, and she had barely felt time pass as she had been dragged about. A glance to the sky saw it murky, giving away no indication as to what time it could be. It might be late at night or early in the morning; without the sun, there was no way of knowing, but the land was not dark. Flames licked up the side of houses and raged inside them, and it was a good thing the air was so still in the marshlands, for a gust would surely have seen the trees alight as well.

“Sir! We're here!” Bevil shouted to get attention, and Cylle let him take charge. He was older than she was, but shorter by an inch if that, and her size often stole the attention away from him. Several times in the past he had told her that it made no matter to him, that he preferred to be let alone when possible, but it did not seem fair to her, and she would cede ground to him where she could. Now she was more than willing to step back, wanting the night to fade away so she could wake from this nightmare or, if it was real, sit alone with her grief, but it was not to be so. Someone's heavy hand was clapping her shoulder and then forcing her sword-arm up, and someone else was yelling to _stand ground_ , and over the low swamp-hills she could see a line of both short and lanky figures advancing. They were shapeless past height 'til they stepped out of the murk for good, and it was more grey dwarves facing them, with a lizard-like warrior for every four of them. They stopped on the crest of the hill, a formidable line sizing up their opponents, until one of the lizard-folk _hissed_ , and then they were charging. To her left, Bevil hefted his longsword up once again and began to totter forward, and Cylle turned her body sideways from force of habit to lessen the target that was herself. She was stockier than most girls, broad where others seemed to be slim and lithe, and all the clothes she owned hid what soft curves she did possess. There was no wrong in it, not when she spent so much time with weaponry and charging around the village and surrounding swamp, but where her size and strength could easily intimidate those unused to her it also made her an easy target, whether for words or blades. Her body had never failed to serve her, though, and some quiet voice in the back of her mind noted that even tired, even grieving, she was more than capable of meeting a blade with her own and flicking it to the side to leave her rival open, ready to take a swift stab to the gut, and then move on. There were plenty of enemies, so many that Harbormen were battling back-to-back here and there, but there was naught to do but fight on. Brother Merring and his blessings might have been a world away for all the help they were doing in this battle, and if she fell she would simply have to taste the mud and die quietly while the invaders bulled on and overwhelmed the rest of her friends. 

The thought was a strangely sobering one. It caused her heart to thump wildly, but it kept her thoughts calm. _Strike, one, two, knock the blade aside, step forward, thrust, move on._ Where only a short while ago it had felt as though the entire continent had fallen on them, now there were less targets to hit, less foes to fell, and the less she thought, the better she fought. When she whirled about, mail jingling, and found no other target to hit, she put her sword up and noticed that its blade was slick and dark with blood. She stared at it, eyes aching, and wondered if she was to wake up any time soon.  
“Good, good,” Georg was saying as he marched by her. He stopped several paces from her, breathing heavily, and turned his head to survey the area. Sweat shone on his bald head. _It's reflecting the flames_ , Cylle thought absurdly, and fought back laughter that would have sounded harsh and loud and entirely out of place. “That's not the last of them. Catch your breath, all, there are more to come, and soon- _Bevil Starling, hold your ground!_ ”  
A glance saw him running towards his home, the front door wide open. He turned his head as he ran, called something over his shoulder that was lost in Cylle's own heavy breaths and pounding heartbeat, and disappeared into the house. The gloom stirred at the corner of her eyes, and more lizards on two legs stalked forward to take the places of their fallen comrades. Georg spat, held his sword at the ready once more, and Cylle forced her own arm to cooperate and copy his actions- 

-and arrows whistled through the air. Several thudded into the ground with such force that only the fletching remained visible, but many more found their marks. Lizard-folk dropped to the ground, bleeding from the shoulder or legs or in one case, the neck, and as one person the militia turned to see their saviours.  
“Daeghun!” someone called, and Cylle felt as though her heart was soaring, free from a burden she did not realise she had been carrying. The elf stood with men either side of him, shortbow held at the ready, his quiver near-empty. He nodded at whoever spoke, strode forward with the other bowmen following suit, and let his eyes roam. They stopped when they saw Cylle, and his direction changed to approach her, rather than Georg.  
“You are safe,” he said when he was closer, and she nodded down at him. The two were so different at a glance – he with carefully-kept dark hair, short stature and pointed ears; she with hair and skin as gold as Lathander's own kisses, standing so much taller than him. There was nothing of him in her, and yet-  
“I'm glad you came, father.”  
He turned from her, apparently satisfied with her health, and did not answer her. The militia were warily letting their swords droop to the ground, and several were talking amongst themselves, demanding to know what they were, why they were here. Merring was hanging back from the scene, she noticed, until he decided that the battlefield was as safe as it was ever going to get. There were men bleeding and on the ground, and others doing their best to help them, and he stepped forward to press mossy herbs against the wounds.  
“I understand you lost a friend,” Daeghun said, still surveying the land. He spoke as though it meant nothing to him, and though Cylle understood that it was his nature, she could not help the lump that made a place in her throat. She grunted a noise that might have been assent. “Do not dwell on her passing. It will serve you no purpose – not when there are still things to do. You are not hurt? Able to travel?”  
“Weary, but- able.”  
He nodded. “Good. I've an inkling of what those beastlings were here for.”

He launched into an explanation typical for him: straightforward, with no extra details than necessary. A silver shard was buried near enough to draw their attention and had been buried there for the better part of twenty years, from a time better forgotten. Cylle made the mistake of asking questions – something she had yet to grow out of, despite her age, and his expression darkened when she said the wrong thing. “Let your mother's spirit _rest_ ,” he said, and that was the end of the questions. Twenty years past had seen her mother alive and well, whoever she had been; there was nothing of hers in their home, and Daeghun had never willingly spoken of her. Cylle had contented herself with an imaginary face, darker than her own burnished gold colour, from all the time spent adventuring. From the few details she had gathered, she knew that the woman – _Esmerelle_ , her name had been, and it rolled off the tongue wonderfully – had loved to travel and had been more than capable of fighting her way across Faerûn, that she had made it at least as far as the Anauroch. The desert would be the ideal place to tan a darker colour, then, and it was that simple explanation that kept her satisfied. Her father never once entered her mind – Daeghun was all she needed to know of a father, whether of her blood or no, and he was all she could have hoped for and more. Even if he was silent more often than not and used praise only sparingly, she loved him and his practicality, and when she overstepped the line as she had now, she would always lower her eyes and apologise. He neither accepted nor rejected it, but turned his head and beckoned a dawdler close.

“Bevil, I need you to accompany my daughter. You will both be going to the ruins. You know them, I presume?”  
“Know them? Of course, but... weren't they overrun by lizard-folk a time ago? They're not safe.”  
“They are not safe, no. That is why two of you are going. Where only one of you may fail, you both together may succeed.” Her father turned his gaze back to her, and she felt herself standing just a little straighter. “Find the shard. Find it, and bring it here.”  
He did not wait for an answer; simply turned and marched over to Merring, whose hair was falling into his eyes. “He makes the hairs on my neck stand right up.” It was the age-old complaint that Bevil always fell back upon, as had Amie, once upon a time. Daeghun would ask for something to be done, Cylle would obey, Bevil would gripe about how it wasn't _right_.  
“That might be so, but we've work to do. The swamp. Let's get going, please.”  
“We'll be out there _all night_ ,” came the grumbled response, but he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and shrugged, letting her lead once again.

It was hours before they came across the ruins. The sun had began its laborious ascent through the sky, and the shadows grew ever longer with each passing minute, though the gloom persisted. It was not wise to tread lightly when dead in the Mere, and they lost sight of the rarely-used trail to the ruins more than once. Flickers of fires cut through the murk here and there where lizard men made their camps, and though it was simple enough to sneak by some, the marsh was too treacherous to cut through directly. Soon enough, lizard bodies littered the way they'd come from, providing the perfect trail to follow once they'd left the ruins. They stopped by a fire for a short time, letting their feet rest and doing their best to release some of the tension the night had built up by exchanging jokes, but it was a fruitless endeavour. Their smiles felt brittle and forced, and what little laughter they shared was quiet, hollow. They talked of Amie 'til Cylle's eyes began to water, and she demanded why he'd fled the battle instead.  
“I saw them dwarves going into my home,” he said simply. “Mum and her kids were in there, unarmed, you know? I couldn't let them.”  
After that they sat in silence until they exchanged a weary look, and the two of them got to their feet to trudge onward, both reluctant to leave the fireside. Cylle's foot found a puddle that sucked at her boot insistently, and Bevil had to tug her free, but there were no more lizard-folk to bother them until they found the ruins.

If nothing else, they were certainly ruinous. The stone was mossy and crumbling the closer it sat to the ground, with a door that was slimy to the touch. There were braziers atop four columns before its entrance, and the light they cast did little to illuminate the surrounding area.  
“Ready?” Cylle asked, and Bevil laughed in response. It was a shaky noise.  
“Best not ask that of me.”  
Inside, the ruins seemed almost well-kept. There were hints of life here and there: the carcass of something unidentifiable but most certainly feasted on; large pellet droppings in the corners of rooms; bundles of rags built up in piles that could be considered bedding. They opened every door they came across, but were met with disappointment or lizard men at each opportunity. Still, Cylle insisted they press on or not go back at all. “Father wants the shard, so we're going to find it.” Grumble as he might, Bevil could not hope to change her mind, and nor could he leave her after forging on so far with her. His grumblings were well-founded, however. The ruins were almost like a labyrinth, sprawling on and on and _on_. They kept the doors they'd passed open, so they would know where they had already been, and discovered that they did not double back at any point – the tunnels were straightforward enough, but they stretched on for what felt like forever, and it was so dark. There were sconces every thirty steps, but no torches in them, and neither girl nor boy had skill enough in magic to call a light to aid them. The persistent darkness did nothing to alleviate their fear.  
“Wait,” Bevil threw a hand out when even Cylle was beginning to lose hope. It hit her square in the chest, and he winced at the contact with the mail. “Listen.”

She tried to listen beyond the blood pulsing in her ears, and heard nothing. No matter how she held her breath or concentrated, no sound made itself known to her, and she said as much to her companion.  
“I hear words. Talking,” he amended, and pointed with his sword up the hall they were walking. Its end was swallowed up in the darkness. “Let's keep going, see what's there. Maybe there'll be another door.”  
There was indeed another door, and the closer they came to it the stronger the sound of speech became. Eventually even Cylle was aware of it, and they crept closer and closer until their ears were all but pressed against it. A soft touch made it swing forward softly, but the voice did not stop. It was intoning, praying aloud, and every so often there would be the rasp of many lizard tongues echoing the words. Taking deep breaths, they pushed the door open wider and stepped through. The first thing that struck them was the light. Candles had been lit in all the sconces of this room, and the light they shed was steady, but the true wonder was the great cauldrons in the centre of the room. Four great black pots they were, full of flame, and it felt as though it were high noon in this one room deep underground. For the first time they were able to see the style of the ruins, though both had to shield their eyes from the light at first. Down here, the stone was safe from mould and rain and in good condition. Boxes of all shapes and sizes were stacked against the far wall, and tucked away safe behind an outcrop of darker rock was what looked like a stone sarcophagus. They were, of course, not alone. No less than six lizard men had turned away from a seventh speaker at the far end of the room.  
“Look,” the leader managed to make even that sound sibilant, a curse of the bisected lizard-tongue they were born with. “The warmbloods come to interrupt our most holy of rituals.”  
“Great Mother, please, look kindly upon us,” Bevil muttered. Cylle resisted the urge to roll her eyes and stepped forward, one hand raised high, the other letting her sword point clang to the floor.  
“Please! We're not here to fight!” Some of the lizard men went _hiss-hiss-hiss_. Whether they were laughing or mocking, she could not say. “Please,” she repeated. “My, uh- my tribe left something here, a long time ago. We have come to collect it. We mean no harm.”  
“And yet you are here, walking all over our sacred ground. Brothers, do you think the humans would enjoy it if we interrupted their prayers?”

_They aren't going to listen to us_. The realisation struck her suddenly. The lizard men were unarmed, but they were many, and had strong muscles all over their bodies. Their necks were thicker than one of her thighs, and their eyes were all accusing. “We're sorry, please- we won't disturb you further, we just want what's ours and then we'll go-"  
“Words are wind, warmblood. Your kind have said as much to us before, and then gone back on their word. I do not think we shall give you the satisfaction of doing so this time. _Brothers_.”  
They all went _hiss-hiss-hiss_ , louder this time, and Cylle barely had time to raise her sword again before two were upon her. The one to her left swished its tail into the backs of her knees and she buckled, and then she knew pain as a great hand cuffed her. _I did not think about their claws_. She had never had cause to before: usually they were armed to the teeth, and it was the points of spears that she and others had to evade rather than a scaly, strong hand. The force was enough to stun her, and the claws had scraped her scalp, and she swung wildly with her sword, not expecting anything to come of it. But the one to her right moaned, or tried to, and then there was only one raising its arms to strike her once again. She dropped further, rolled out of the way and pushed to her feet once again, head ringing. _When I get back, I'm asking father for a helm._ Another lizard took the place of its brother, but this time she was ready and wary. The one that had been preparing to swing had done so, and found itself off-balance when her body wasn't where it had been expecting it to be. She raised the sword as high as she dared, brought it back down to embed itself in the offending limb, and tugged it free with a wet, meaty sound. The blade swung straight to the side again, and found a new home right in the other lizard's ribs. Aggrieved hissing filled the air, and a quick look over at Bevil saw him standing just as victorious as she, though covered with more blood. More bodies were at his feet, and they were still, or at the very least not standing – hissing turned to growling in her ear, and she turned in time to receive a face full of lizard fist.

It knocked her clean off her feet, and she landed on the floor with her head ringing. Her right hand clenched into a fist and then opened again. The hilt of her sword wasn't there, and she found that turning her head was too much effort. Her nose felt hotter than the evening hearth, and the heat was trickling over her lip, and she was dimly aware of Bevil yelling her name. _Stop making so much noise_ , she wanted to say. _It's not necessary._ She saw him rush into view and out of it again, sword held high, and she shut her eyes to listen to the sounds of combat better. Perhaps the hit had stunned her silly: her ears were filled with nothing but yelling which gave way to the occasional grunt, and it seemed to last a lifetime. _This isn't what a battle sounds like_. Then Bevil was at her side, face close enough to hers that she could count every individual hair between his eyebrows. She tried to laugh, and the noise transformed partway into a groan. “Come on, sit up, keep your head forward.” He helped lift her, and the world span as she moved her head. “Are you okay? I don't have any potions, I can't- oh, geez.” A hand pressed her head forward, and something hot splashed down into her hands. It was blood. It looked strange against her skin. “Cylle, talk to me.”  
 _My head hurts_. “My head... ohhh.” As though to hammer the point home, her nose _throbbed_ , and pain seared behind her eyes. “The... the lizards?”  
“They're done, they're all- I dealt with them. You did a good number on two of 'em yourself.”  
“Two...”  
“Hey, shh. Don't talk, keep your head forward 'til the bleeding stops.”  
He kept talking, nonsense babble designed to keep her from panicking, but she blanked it all out. _Two_. That meant he'd taken care of... how many, four, five? All by himself. His hands took hers and raised it to her face, and after a moment she pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. It hurt, but she'd had blood noses before, and knew without a potion or a block of ice that this was the best way to stop it. _At least it hurting means you're still alive._

Bevil stayed at her side, prattling about useless things until the blood flow slowed and then stopped. She spat a glob of it out and wiped more from her mouth, and then reluctantly pushed herself to her feet. Nothing was more inviting than laying back on the floor and shutting her eyes, but she knew stone would not make a comfortable bed, and more likely than not she'd have her throat cut once she was come-upon. “Come then,” she tried to say, and was aghast to discover her voice thick as only a blocked or bloodied nose could achieve. “Let's fi- get this shard and get back.”  
The silver shard was in one of the many boxes in the corner. Whether it was the firelight or the shard itself, something was making it glitter like the stars did. “What's a thing like that doing here?” She took it from the crate and blinked. Whether it was the shard or just her head she wasn't sure, but her world had spun again and filled her with the most curious feeling. “It's- woah, it looks sharp. Be careful with it.”

It _was_ sharp. Despite Bevil's warning, she made the mistake of running a finger along one of its edges, and groaned when the skin split. “Is there anything we can wrap it in? Cloth? Ah, wait-” A glance down had revealed the white of her nightgown stained beyond repair. _More damage won't hurt._ One clean slice split the fabric apart, and then she tore a great strip of it away to use as a sheath. Bevil looked away to afford her knees privacy. She would have snorted, but her nose was too blocked, and she was focused on having every corner of the shard wrapped up. Once she was certain it was covered, she slipped it into her boot, and prayed that it wouldn't cut through the piece of gown and her calf. Nestled between leather and leg hair, they stood, and found their swords.  
“Let's hurry. The sun will probably be up fully now. Reckon Daeghun will be happy to see us?”

After another long march through darkness, the world felt harsh to look upon. Day had broken fully over the Mere of Dead Men when they exited, and both were so exhausted that they walked slowly, in silence, as though dazed. Swamp beetles were beginning to swarm about the bodies they had left to decay, but nothing large enough to drag the bodies away had made an appearance, and their morbid trail back to West Harbor remained mostly untouched. The blood on Cylle's lips dried and cracked as they walked, and the fogginess the blow had afforded her gave way to a dull, persistent ache that filled her entire skull. Despite knowing the danger of walking blind and deaf through the swamp in this manner, neither could bring themselves to focus. _If there is a pursuer, let them pursue._ Once or twice she thought there had been a movement at the very corner of her eyes, but every time she turned her head to look there was only stillness and gloom. _I must be tired_. It had been well over a day since she had slept properly; she and the rest of the village had been up early to celebrate the Harvest Fair, and once it was over they had all stayed up late singing and feasting. _And hungry_. The memory of roasting meat and warm loaves was almost too much to bear, and her stomach growled audibly. Bevil smiled wearily. “Nearly back. Nearly there.” It was a lie, but better than giving in to thoughts of an endless marsh to tread. She entertained herself instead with thoughts of Daeghun and the idle fancy that he might smile when presented with the shard and praise her for a job well done. _More like he'll scold me for ruining the gown and send me on another errand._

No one could claim that she did not know her father. He was talking with the brother when they returned and cut the conversation short to greet them in his own way. “You have the shard?” Weary, Cylle fished it from her boot and handed the cloth-wrapped item to him, letting him unravel it for himself and waving at the brother to get his attention. He rushed over, pressed what remained of a bottle of potion into her hand, and pressed his fingertips to her crown. The touch stung, and she belatedly remembered that lizard men had claws and that she had been cuffed more than once. “In one piece. Thank you.”  
“Is that all you can say?” Bevil's tone was too familiar, too angry, and she was too tired to deal with it. Healing magic washed over her back and into her head and some of the exhaustion lifted, though not all, not enough to make her want to step in. “I- we almost died out there. That thing's in one piece, but Cylle barely is.”  
Daeghun fixed him with a cold stare. “If I had thought you incapable, I would have sent another. Both of you have returned, and both alive.”  
“ _You_ weren't out there getting attacked by lizard-folk!”  
“Quite right. I was here, attending the wounded. Now that he has patched up my daughter, you will go with Merring and do the same.” His tone brooked no argument, and Bevil left as ordered, though not without a sullen glare and quiet mutterings that she had heard a million times before. _I put up with him because I love him, and know he does me. You couldn't understand, Bev. Not when you refuse to see the good in him._ “You had trouble?”

“Enough to be getting on with.” In his hand, the shard continued to glitter. With no torchlight to glint off its surface now, that struck her as especially odd. “Tell me about the shard. Please.”  
He turned it over. “It is one of a pair. Both were found after- after the destruction of West Harbor of old. My half-brother... he and I discovered them, and asked a mage from the city of Neverwinter to examine it. There was nothing, except for the faintest of magical auras, so we kept them, one for each of us, and swore to keep them safe. When I returned here, I hid mine in the ruins.”  
“I have an uncle?” Curiosity swept weariness aside. It was not like Daeghun to volunteer details like that. She wondered if they were of a humour.  
“So to speak. Perhaps it would be more prudent to call him my _half_ -brother. He has faults aplenty that make him... It is not wise to rely on a man of his nature.” A frown was beginning to play at his brows, and she remembered in time the mantra she had tried to learn so many times before. _Don't ask questions_. She changed the topic, instead.

“The shard- I'm not sure if it was my imagination or not, but my head span when I picked it up. I know, I got hit in the head – but it didn't feel the same, father. It was like – the earth and sky inverted for a moment. May I?” He held the shard out to her and she picked it up carefully this time, wary of its edges. With her blood fully stoppered and the pain in her head gone, she was not expecting to feel dizzy once again, but her fingers and arm tingled all the same, and then her head was swimming again. “Oh, that's... it feels like magic. Stronger than Tarmas's stuff...”  
He took it from her again and the sensation receded. She was glad for it.. “Strange. I trust your intuition, but I never thought... maybe a second look at them would provide an answer.”  
“A second- oh! You mean the mage you saw before?”  
“That's correct, but such divinations are beyond anyone here. Including the wizard,” he added, forestalling her response. “Cylle, I need you to go to Neverwinter and do this thing for me. Find my half-brother, take his shard, and find a mage you _both_ can trust. Duncan might be unsavoury, but he knows who to trust and who not to. He owns an inn called the Sunken Flagon, in the Docks district of Neverwinter.” His lip curled. “Not the most... _reputable_ of places, but it should serve. It should be safe.”

The information seemed too much, too sudden. Screwing her eyes shut, Cylle tried to make sense of it, and was grateful for the silence she was granted. “Go to _Neverwinter_? Father, that...” _I just want to lay my head down and sleep._ “Bevil's coming with me, right?” She opened her eyes to an answer of a head shake. “He's not?”  
“Of course not. You value him as a friend, but he will be of no help to you outside of West Harbor. He is... made for simpler things, shall we say."  
A glance over to the man in question had her silently agreeing, but she pressed her lips firmly together all the same. “Don't talk about him that way. He helped me- I wouldn't be here if he hadn't gone to the Mere with me.”  
“Very well. We'll waste no more time discussing him, then. You need to go as soon as possible. Say your farewells, gather what little you need... perhaps clothe yourself,” he added with a pointed look at the frayed hem of her nightgown poking out from beneath the hauberk she wore. Heat flooded her cheeks. “I know you will want to stay, but this village cannot shelter you, nor keep you safe. Look about you, Cylle. Too many are wounded or dying to withstand another attack. On the road, however...”  
“I'll be safe if I keep moving,” she said, remembering those words from a lesson taught a long time ago. Girlhood had never seemed so far in the past as it did in that moment, and the future stretched out ahead of her, long and uncertain. She had yet to take the first step, and she could refuse, she could tell Daeghun to send someone else, someone more capable...  
One look at his face saw that resolve crumble as though it had never existed in the first place. _I can refuse him nothing._ “I... alright. Tell me how to get to Neverwinter.”

The rest of the day passed as though it were a dream. She had a map thrust at her, with directions drawn crudely on it, which were then explained to her. Once she had recited it to her father's satisfaction, she had been pushed in the direction of their house – which still stood, untouched by fire, though the front door had been broken clean off its hinges. She climbed the stairs to her room and dressed, relishing the few moments out of mail. Her room was messy, but by the time she had located a bag and filled it with essential items it seemed to be almost empty for the first time in two decades, or near enough as made no difference. She took a moment to look at it, to try and burn the image into her eyes, and found her gaze pulled to her bed more than anything. _The only things here for me are in this bag, now_. Collecting contrivances had never been something she had put stock in, for things broke or were stolen all too easily, and she had nothing of her parents to hold dear except in memories.  
Properly dressed now, her sword rested in the belt at her hips, and she shouldered the bag easily. A quick raid of their pantry cupboard saw a half-loaf and the jerky she had been given at the Fair nestled between a pair of leathers, and after a moment's thought she took a hunk of cold meat from the cold-box they were lucky enough to own. It wasn't much: a dug hole lined with vellum to stop dirt falling on food, and filled partway with water that was then frozen by Tarmas or any other who knew how to use magic. No doubt the meat would be missed, but it was a small price to pay for sending a daughter away north. Into the bag it went, and then there was nothing else that was hers to take.

Retta Starling was waiting for her as she was leaving the house, feeling weary and then wary. Bevil's mother was kind-hearted, she was sure, but more than once had she heard her raised voice echoing across the village, backed with the melody of three large dogs barking. The dogs weren't in attendance, she was pleased to see, and Retta's thick arms were raised to embrace her. “I bin told you're bin sent to the city of skilled hands,” she announced to Cylle's shoulder. Her arms pinned, the younger girl had no way of reciprocating the hug, and she stood there suffering. For a grey-hair, the woman was still surprisingly strong. “I pray you fare well, chit. Better than aul Lorne – you know Bevil's older brother? Won't be surprised if you don't, it was near a tenyear ago he left us, now. He fought in the war against Luskan, you know,” she said as her arms finally let up. “En't heard from him since. I 'spect he's long dead, and Merring says to keep a hold a' hope, but an old filly like me knows better. You'll keep an eye out for him, I know. Any word, you send a letter or summing direct to me, you hear? A proper burial, that's what we'll do.” Weakly, Cylle nodded, and her reward was a broad smile and then the blessed sight of Retta Starling leaving to go about her business once more. Then all there was to do was cross the bridge and seek out Bevil. The adults of the village were busy with clearing burning planks or those in pain and no doubt had little and less time for a girl preparing to leave, but she would not go without a farewell to her friend. He was still with Merring, looking drawn and exhausted, and he barely seemed to notice her until she tapped him on the shoulder.

“Brother, may I borrow Bevil for a short time?” Her answer was a weary smile and a nod, and she gestured for the younger man to follow her just a short way from the bodies. She kept her eyes off them, not wanting to look at the dead, not wanting to know how many had perished. “I'm going.”  
He didn't seem to understand at first. “Not back to the Mere, I hope. I'm not going with you again, no matter what Daeghun says.”  
“No, no, that's – I'm leaving. West Harbor. I'm leaving the village. I'm going north.”  
“What's north?” When she didn't answer, he frowned, and raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Wait, don't tell me. Something to do with that shard, and now Daeghun's making you go. This isn't- that's not _fair_.”  
“When is it ever?” she smiled, and wondered if she would ever see Bevil again. Neverwinter was a long way from home, and the road was no doubt treacherous. With any luck, her disappearance with this strange shard would keep him and the rest of the village safe. “I've got to do it, Bev. You know how he gets if I say no.”

“But-”  
“No,” she said, and for a change he closed his mouth. She looked at him – properly, for the first time in a while. He was trying to grow some kind of moustache, she realised, but it seemed wispy and infantile. His hair was stringy with sweat, and above all he looked exhausted. “I wanted to say thank you, before I went. You know, for- for being a friend. I needed it, back when we were kids.” Primarily a human village, West Harbor was no stranger to elves or the occasional halfling, but all the same Cylle had stuck out as a child. Other kids had made fun of her golden skin and golden eyes, and she had wept bitterly until Amie and Bevil had stopped them from rocks at her. The two had been neighbours, and friendly, and they accepted the strange girl into their ranks without question, becoming fast friends after that. _You have weird eyes,_ one of them had told her once, _but they're pretty eyes, too. Better than boring blue!_ She had asked her father if she was weird, later that night, and had sat on the floor at his feet as he explained what she was. _You are an aasimar, my daughter. In your veins runs the blood of the celestials. You are a little angel._ It had been explanation enough for a child, and it had been one of the few times he had smiled at her, and after that the bullying had stopped, mostly. “I'd have been lonely without you.”

Bevil flushed. “That's... aah, it was a long time ago. You've been a good friend too, Cylle. It... you're really going?”  
“Really going.”  
They were silent for a moment, and then he held his arms out stiffly. They embraced shortly, awkwardly – adults and still embarrassed when their knees bumped – and he cleared his throat loudly once they broke apart. “Take care, then. Don't get hurt again.”  
“I won't,” she promised, and then she was walking away to find her father once again. She still did not feel awake, and moved as if in a dream. 

He was waiting by the Starling farm for her and did not smile when she approached. “You have said your farewells, then?”  
“Yes, father.”  
“Good. I suspect you will be seeing your fair share of battle before you reach Neverwinter, so keep your sword clean and sharp, do you hear? Stay on the road. Now, tell me where you are to go.”  
“I'm to find the port town of Highcliff and board a ship to the city,” she recited. “It'll be quicker and safer by water, provided there are no storms.”  
“Just so. I've told the people here you are to be travelling the High Road, in the hope that the enemy follows the route, rather than you. The misdirection may buy you days.” He studied her briefly, looking at her sword and her bag. “You have everything, I take it?” She nodded. “Then it is time for you to leave, my daughter. Every moment you linger puts us in greater danger.”  
“I...” _I don't understand why I have to go. I want someone to come with me. I want to sleep and leave on the morrow._ “I understand, father. I'll go at once. Please take care.”  
Daeghun straightened, picked his bow up once more, and touched her briefly on the elbow. Standing taller than him meant that he could no longer rest his hand upon her head as he had done when she had been a child, and she found herself longing for girlhood once again. Girlhood, a warm hearth, and a full belly.

Then he was gone, to attend to whatever matters Georg or Merring were to bestow upon him, and she was leaving, and the whole world awaited her.


	2. Chapter 2

It could not have taken her longer than a halfday to reach the little inn. There was only one trail in and out of West Harbor, and she had followed it uninterrupted. It felt as though time had ceased to exist for her. Her world was made up of a well-trod path and plenty of little biting insects that kept coming back to feast at her, no matter how she slapped them away. She took step after step, wandering away from the thick swampland until the trail was almost like a proper road. There was no end to the greenery that decorated the path, bushes and trees alike, and the light that filtered through the topmost leaves came down tinted green as well. Great shadows were thrown to her right, away from where the sat high above. Several times she was tempted to rest underneath the boughs for a time: she had passed not a single soul on the trail and could see no sign of doing so in the foreseeable future. It was such a tempting notion, to rest her feet and eyes in the shade, and she even started to change her direction to do so when she remembered days spent as a girl trying to find her father as a challenge. She had never been able to see where he hid himself, even though she _knew_ where all the best spots were, and had always been shocked to see him melt out of his spot like he'd stepped out of the material plane altogether and then back in just to confuse her. He had always placed a gentle hand on her head and told her to _look harder next time_ , and try as she might, she never once found him. The day she had asked him for a sword, he had asked her whether she meant to strike at shadows or an enemy she could see, instead. “One I can see, obviously,” she had replied, and he had told her to sit, all the better to listen to what other people could do.  
“If you wish to train with blade and shield then I will find you someone who can tutor you to the best of their ability, but I will not be the one to teach you,” he had said. “You will learn to pluck a bowstring from me, but that is all the guidance I can give you. I could teach you to track and hunt and hide, but it takes years to learn to do it correctly – the same years you will instead devote to the sword. Do you understand?”

She had understood, and said as much, and Daeghun had done his best to find her an adequate mentor. Sometimes she regretted her choices, most often when she watched him slip nimbly through a crowded marketplace and could only follow by shouldering her way through, but she always remembered that she did not have to shadow him down to his every thought. _It is fine to do what I want to do, so long as I remember all he taught me._ It was that memory of trying not to lose him in town that made her stop mid-stride and shake her head. The tree she had been walking towards rustled its leaves invitingly, and she cast it a baleful look as she continued on past it. _If I sleep in the road I'll wake up dead... or not at all._  
As bad an idea as it was to stop, she could not stop thinking about it. Not having had time to rest and recover fully from the attack – or even the Harvest Fair – meant that there was a persistent ache behind her eyes, in the base of her skull, in her very pulse. Every step was a chore, and the glare of the sun's light was beginning to irritate her. It became midday, and then mid afternoon, and still her body cried out for rest, a bed, something, _anything_. The worst part was knowing that even if she were able to make camp, sleep would not come easy, if at all. She had always had a hard time napping when the sun was up. Gritting her teeth, she kept on following the path, knowing there was little else for her to do until she came upon the port town Daeghun had told her of.

When the inn loomed out of nowhere, hidden by a willow that had the indecency to drape its branches all over the path, her heart soared. The day was coming to a slow, sluggish close as the sun began to sink, and Cylle had not stopped once. Her feet throbbed inside her boots and her shoulders were heavy under her mail, and for the last hour she had thought only of a bed. Her fantasies had ranged from the luxurious four-posters with hanging drapes that she had heard only kings could afford, to the impoverished stacks of hay that she knew from experience were more comfortable than the cold earth. Her exhaustion had pushed the battle of the morning far from her head – though the vague sense of discomfort remained that had nothing to do with being tired. Every once in a while she would jump as she remembered the clash of swords, and look about to make sure she was not being followed, and just as quickly forget about it all over again. Keeping focused on it was not a productive way to spend her time. The stench of burning timber and the squeals of livestock and people alike being butchered was not something that any man or woman could bear to keep in mind for too long without succumbing to despair. If she dwelt on it, she would surely find herself off the road with a heavy heart and moist eyes. With an inn so close and rest finally at hand, there was no reason to dawdle with those thoughts. There would be time enough for tears later.

There were men outside the establishment, and she could hear their chatterings before she could see their faces clearly. _Not just men_ , she realised. There were three surrounding a dwarf, and revulsion reared its ugly head for a moment as she recalled three men of equally short stature bursting into her house with axes raised aloft. She forced a deep breath. _This ones skin isn't grey. He's not one of them._ She stared through the hanging branches at their gathering for a moment, and then decided it was for the best that she stepped out. _Best let them see me, in case I startle them._  
None of them seemed startled. This was, after all, a place for weary travellers to rest their heads. However, none of them seemed happy that someone had come upon them, and two of the men had hands perilously close to daggers sheathed at their belts. Whatever they had been saying was obviously not intended for her ears; they went silent as she stepped closer, except for the dwarf, who laughed long and loud. “So you'll save face in front of a stranger, but not a dwarf who'll have ye all flat on your backs in a minute? Cowards, the lot of ye.”

That earned him three angry glares, and one of the men stepped backwards to allow their unexpected visitor a clear path to the inn's door. Cylle stayed where she was. “What's going on?”  
“Nothing that concerns you, miss,” said the one who had stepped back. “This is between us an' the dwarf... and his coin. Best be getting inside, afore you piss yourself when the blades start flashing.”  
“You're _afraid_ of her!” the dwarf hooted. He seemed jolly enough for someone faced with an angry trio. Cylle couldn't share his enthusiasm, not after a lifetime of being terrorised by the Mossfield brothers. “Come on, hit me already! Whether alone or in front of her, I'm not fussy. Let's get it over with!”  
“Um,” Cylle said, and had four pairs of eyes trained on her in a second. “Surely this... there's got to be another way of settling whatever's happened. You don't need to fight-”  
The dwarf slapped his belly and drew an axe near as tall as he was. “ _Hit me._ ”

Then they were brawling, and Cylle had just enough time to draw her sword. It was a simple enough fight, though she wanted no part in it: the men had nothing but daggers on them, and were afraid to get too close to the girl or the dwarf for fear of having steel slash through their simple cloth-and-leather. Eventually two of them fled, and the other put up his weapon, muttering something that neither of them could hear, and slunk back into the inn. The dwarf laughed again, and the sound was enough to have her lips twitching upward.  
“Well, that could have gone better. Cowards, the lot of 'em – but I can't say I expected much. Name's Khelgar, by the way, of clan Ironfist. Ye heard of 'em?” He didn't seem troubled when she shook her head, and thundered on as though her answer made no difference to his introduction. “Ach, well. Been making my way along the Coast for a while now. Stopped here for a fight, and not only did I find one, I found someone willing to join in!”  
Her cheeks flushed as he let the axe-head thump to the floor and stared at her over its butt. He had a friendly face that seemed naturally inclined to smile, and though he had to crane his neck to look up at her, he seemed not in the slightest intimidated. She sheathed her own sword. “I'm... glad I could even the odds. I'm Cylle. Cylle Ferravae.” If the name sounded out of place to her new companion, he made no mention of it. It was odd on the tongue, even for its owner – by all rights she ought to have adopted her father's name when he took her in, but once she had learnt of her mother's name she had been reluctant to give it up, even if she'd never known its owner. Daeghun had said that was a good quality to have, and never forced his own on her.

“Even the odds? They didn't stand a chance in the first place. Must be why they turned tail and _fled_ ,” he roared at the disappeared figures of his would-be attackers. Cylle couldn't help but smile. “What brings you up this end of the Sword Coast? Ye aren't just one of them people that goes around helping others for the sake of it, are ye?” He squinted, as though the idea of being kind-hearted was a suspicious trait.  
“No, I'm – travelling. To Neverwinter.” Daeghun had said nothing of making mention of her goals to other people, and Khelgar did not seem the kind of person to wage war on an unassuming village. He nodded, and swung the axe back over his shoulder, one hand behind his back to strap it in place.  
“I'm headed there myself,” he said. “It must be your lucky day. Ye've made a friend, _and_ you're headed in the right direction! It's more than could be said for a lot of feckless fools.”  
“You're headed north too? Why?”

A broad grin spread across his face. Somewhere close by, a cow lowed, and then all at once he had a hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the inn. His fingers easily met around her arm, and if she hadn't seen his battleaxe she would never have guessed that there could be so much strength in a man so small. “It's a good tale,” he was saying as he led her, “But not one that can be heard without a tankard or two. I say we step inside – mind your head – and share our stories. I bet there's more'n meets the eye to you...”  
Bemused, she allowed herself to be seated at a table far from the bar, next to a bookshelf with only a few books on its shelves and several stacked kegs of what she assumed to be ale. Fat candles were lit and crusted to the table by old wax, and they did a good job of staving off the gloom that could easily have enveloped their corner. The ceiling was low and there were not as many tables as she might have expected of a tavern, but they all had people sat at them. The man that had slunk back inside earlier was nowhere to be seen. Khelgar left her momentarily and returned with both hands full of wooden mugs. He set one down in front of her and kept two for himself. Something black glittered at her from inside it, and she sniffed at it – she'd seen ale before, but never actually tasted it for herself. The stuff made for and served at the Harvest Fair was reputedly thick and strong, more yeast than liquid, but the men that lived in the village all swore by it. Amie had gotten drunk off the stuff once, so much that she'd danced on tables and then spent the evening throwing up, and Daeghun had made her swear never to try the stuff. She raised the tankard, remembered her manners and tilted it toward the dwarf, and took a sip. It was well-watered, she could tell that at a taste, but bitter as well, and she struggled to hold a cough in check as she swallowed.  
“ _That's_ ale?” she managed. “It's disgusting!”  
“Aye, I'll grant ye that,” her companion was laughing, she saw, and she flushed. He reached across the table to grab the tankard from her and pulled it toward him. “But it's better than nothing. I'll finish it for ye if you're not keen. Here's a copper; go ask for wine.”

All the protests she made fell on deaf ears, and in no time at all she found herself back from the bar and sat down with a mug of wine – very good, the barkeep had assured her, very fruity. It wasn't fruity, but better than what she had just tasted, and she sipped it politely. Having decided that both were watered enough, the dwarf launched into an explanation of his journey, which sounded more like a journal of different fights. The stories were all the same: he would travel inland or out, north or south, and pick a fight with whomsoever he thought worthy. With only a handful of exceptions, he would emerge the victor, and then carry on with his strange pilgrimage. “Except I've purpose now,” he finished. “There's a... whaddya call 'em, a house of monks... Whatever that place is called. There's one of them there, and they'll train just about anyone – and in an area where there's always room for improvement, a man couldn't ask for a better opportunity!” He'd finished two of the ales by the time he finished speaking, and belched comfortably. Most of Cylle's drink remained. Her head felt as though it was stuffed with sheep's wool, and she got the distinct impression that if she kept drinking she would find her head on the table.  
“You don't exactly seem like the type of person to want to become a monk.” Khelgar nodded like he'd heard it before, and wriggled in his seat to get comfortable again.  
“I didn't always want to _be_ a monk. See, what happened-”

No doubt what happened was yet another fight and a few choice words from his then-opponent, but he did not get the chance to start his story. Instead there was movement at the door and his story died in his mouth as he looked at the newcomers. Following his gaze, Cylle felt fear prickle in her stomach as two grey-skinned dwarves entered, followed by one of the strange lizard-like creatures that had been present at West Harbor. It was very different from a lizard man, she noticed: it was gangling where they were thick and had the most curious face. Near as tall as a human with the pointed ears elves bore, it had sharp features and a nose that was only two slits in the centre of its face. Its skin was a sick shade of grey-green, and where its wiry hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail she could see darker dapples marring its features. In its hand was a sword better-forged than hers.  
“ _Find the Kalach-Cha_ ,” it rasped, and it was lumbering into the inn with the dwarves at its back. Someone screamed, and the lizard-thing turned to swing at the noise. There was silence, the sound of blood thickly spattering to the floor, and then the mayhem started. Every patron who did not have a weapon scrambled to stand and to get as far away from the newcomers as possible, most trying to force their way up the stairs at the very back. Stunned by their appearance, Cylle didn't even think to grab for her sword, and simply sat there, mute. Her companion was not so lax, and vaulted to his feet, axe in his hand before she could fully comprehend what was going on. The noise caught up with her a moment later, and then she was on her feet again and reaching for her own sword. _Gods above, give me a break_. The weapon felt so much heavier than it had any right to be, and her arm refused to cooperate. She tried to lift it high, and found her arm unwilling to heft it above than her hip, too low to slash or stab with. Thankfully Khelgar seemed to be having none of her difficulties: he whirled as only the wind ought to be able, bodies thumping to the floor in his wake. The lizardling was the last to fall, and more than once it seemed as though its sword was going to strike hard and true, but the final blow never came. Instead the axehead sang as it split the air apart and buried itself in the thing's head, just below the ear. Cylle watched the entire exchange take place from the back, her weary arm unable to keep the sword aloft, and her new companion did not seem best pleased with her laxness once he had tugged his own weapon free with a great meaty _squelch_.

“Would it have killed ye to join in?” he demanded, dripping gore over the flagstone. “I've never lost a fight, but standing there numb as a lummox with a sword at hand...” The grumbling continued until the innkeep found enough presence to come before them and ask whether any more murderous beings were going to appear. The duo's shrug did not seem to reassure him, nor did their pennies for rooms, and he let them alone again only reluctantly. Customers began to creep back downstairs once they realised the fight was over, and as more people sat at tables, more curious glances were shot their way. “Best put your sword away and finish your drink,” the dwarf warned. Blinking owlishly, Cylle realised her fingers were still wrapped around her hilt, and it was with a little difficulty that she sheathed it. The wine she left untouched. “I suppose we ought to be moving on. Fighting's not so bad when innocents aren't bein' dragged into it, but if those things are going to be stalking us...”  
“Wait,” she interrupted. “I get that, I understand, but I _need to rest_.”  
“Rest on the road, then.”

No doubt the words were wise, but they were more offensive to her than any five words had a right to be. “You want to get away from here, I get that, but I don't know how far we're going to be able to make it 'til I collapse. I need to _sleep_ , Khelgar, I've spent the better part of two days on my feet fighting and running and gods know what else-”  
“Two days?” he was frowning now, and his beard wagged when he spoke. With a shock of tired amusement, she realised that it was cut cleanly an inch below where it was tied together. “Tell me straight, lass, just what have ye been doing? What are those things? You an adventurer?”  
She took a step back, cautiously, until her back pressed against the wall. It was cold, she could tell that even through her clothes, and the links of her mail pressed even more insistently into her back. “I'm from West Harbor,” she said, fighting the urge to yawn. “The village was attacked... oh, yesterday, today, sometime. I don't know. I was in the Fair, so I was up all yesterday, and they came at night... I don't know what they are. Lizards? They don't look like lizards. My father sent me with a silver... thing,” she finished lamely, realising belatedly that the rest of the inn was no doubt listening in and that she oughtn't be so free with her words. “to Neverwinter. I've family there, and I- I don't know. I think that's it. But I've been doing it on an empty belly and I want to lay my head down, even if it's just for an hour...”

To her own ears she sounded whiny and petulant, traits she had hoped never to grow into. With Daeghun as a father she had learned very early on that whining for things never got them, and that patience was the best virtue a person could hope to own, but despite that she found herself asking for things she did not need every so often. _Khelgar isn't my father and I can fight my own battles as I choose_ , she reasoned to herself, but she looked around as she thought, and counted more heads than she had fingers. _But he's right. We can't put these people in danger._ “We should go,” she said, tongue reluctant to say those words, at the same time Khelgar nodded and said, “We'll stay for a night.”

They looked at one another – plain brown eyes and liquid gold each narrowed and cold as they silently fought for their own decision to be the one to follow – and loudly, absurdly, began to laugh. They stamped their feet and hooted until their breath came in shallow gasps and the rest of the inn began to chatter again, emboldened by the noise they were making, and when they came to both had tears in their eyes.  
“I can walk a while longer,” Cylle said as she wiped her face dry. “I don't mind going. I'm just tired.”  
“I can see that.” the dwarf laughed again, and slapped his thigh. “A rest on hard earth'll do me – both of us some good, I think. Come, we'll leave now and sleep when there's a bit of distance between us and this place. Have ye everything? Then let's leave.”  
He looked ready to go, the complete opposite of how she felt, but she gathered up her things nonetheless, and they exited together. Someone had moved the stalkers from earlier: a pair of stout dwarven feet stuck out of a nearby bush. Cylle could only hope the blood did not stain the inn's flags – or at least, that the damage was not _too_ extensive. They had paid for their drinks, but not the damage they'd incurred, after all. A vision came to her, of wild-eyed barkeeps yelling about debts unpaid, following her the same way she hoped the lizardlings weren't.

“Khelgar,” she said suddenly. The words felt sluggish coming out, as though her tongue needed a good long rest from wagging. “Not that I'm complaining, far from it – but why are you coming with me?”  
His boots scuffed the earth, sending small rocks tumbling ahead of them. A sideways glance down at him showed him looking sheepish, an expression that suited him rather too well. “Seems to me you're the kind of woman that attracts trouble. Two fights in a single evening... I haven't had so much fun since the tavern in Bogen's Pass, where I used that trestle table as a battering ram.” He laughed again. It was a good laugh, and Cylle felt her own lips turning up in response. “All I thought was, we're headed in the same direction, and you seem to have more enemies than friends. We could stay together, maybe teach each other a few things. Does that... ahh, is that...? I ought to have asked, I know...”  
“No, please. We'll be safer together.” _Especially if I end up passing out somewhere and more of those things come to slit my throat._ Far be it from her to use people to her own advantages, however: she had been dreading travelling alone. Even a few hours without companionship was too much for her to handle. Bevil's face came to mind, and she wondered briefly what he was doing. _Sleeping, no doubt_. Jealousy rocketed through her. “I'll be glad for the company.”  
“As will I! And the conversation, soon as you're up for it. And don't you worry about me slowing ye down, either.”

*

A good day and a half passed until the earth began to change beneath their boots. Well-rested both and ready for anything the world could throw at them, the unlikely duo had continued their journey and found one another's company to their liking. Khelgar told endless stories, or so it felt – most culminated with his being thrown out of some establishment or another – and once or twice he even asked questions of Cylle. Once she had woken up the morning after the tavern and collected herself, he had demanded she tell him her tale, and she had obliged. Very soon into the telling he had told her to cut the unnecessary details. “So ye don't know what's following you, or why?” he'd asked, and she had only been able to shake her head. If the dwarf was to be believed, the lizardling wasn't a lizard at all, more human than that, but that only made her frown and wonder just what it could have been. “Let's call them something different for now, just to be clear. Bladeling, perhaps?” The name had stuck, but Cylle hadn't been able to fully push the idea of it being reptilian from her mind. They were out of the marshland proper now, true, but it wasn't entirely unheard for the lizard-folk to venture out of the swamp, either. She pushed the disquieting thought to the back of her mind instead of dwelling on it, and they had changed the topic.

When the sun was fully risen, the day was warm, and both travellers felt all the better for it. The earth was harder and flatter the further they walked, and the trail they had been following eventually transformed into an actual path that wound around hills and trees. Wolves howled in the distance, and Khelgar steered her away from the sound without pausing his latest retelling of an escapade in Conyberry. Just as she was marvelling about how he could remember such details of all the fights he'd ever been in – or so it felt; all the blows she had dealt over the last couple of days had already melded into one aching clangour for her – she caught sight of something atop a hill in the distance. She must have gasped aloud or said something, for the dwarf stopped talking and chuckled.  
“Never seen a fort, have ye? I'd say you're in for a treat, but it'll be much like any other place with people and houses.”  
“It's got sticks all around it,” she said, jaw agape. There were ramparts of some castle or another behind the sharpened defences, and the whole thing sat uphill to make it even harder to storm. It was larger than anything she had ever seen before. Khelgar laughed again and took the lead, her following without taking her eyes off the great structure, even when she nearly tripped twice.

So enraptured was she that she almost didn't see the four soldiers surrounding a smaller figure, but the high sun glinted distractingly off their mail and their swords, and their voices were loud enough. It was with reluctance that she tore her eyes away from the fort, but this was something that she needed to pay attention to. Her companion was watching them with wary eyes as well.  
“A' course, you could tell us where your camp is. We won't even butcher the lot a' you!”  
“I _told_ you, I'm not with them! Or are you deaf _and_ stupid?”  
“Stupi- and here we were, thinking about letting you live.”  
The angriest one took a step forward, but one of his men must have said something to stop him. He stamped a foot instead and whirled around to look at Cylle and Khelgar, both who bristled instantly. Even from a distance, he looked an unpleasant man. A small, thick hand was pressed into her back, and they both approached. The soldier looked less and less like someone they wanted to associate with the closer they got.  
“Friends of yours?” one of the men said, and prodded whoever they were tormenting with his sheathed sword. Cylle frowned, and looked past the one that looked in charge. Standing there miserably with her shoulders hunched in to make a lesser target was a pretty girl with speckled skin, a shock of dark red hair, and horns. _That_ was a shock, but not so much that she felt the urge to lose her head... or take out her sword and start poking her with it. Her stomach felt as though something was kneading it, and the strange girl locked eyes with her. She had eyes as red as her hair.

The soldiers were growing impatient. The one who asked the question cleared his throat, and Cylle remembered belatedly that there was a particularly gruff man standing in front of her. He cocked an eyebrow as she returned her gaze to him. “You going to move on or stare? We ain't got all day. We're soldiers from the fort. Hunting _bandits_ ,” he added, as though that was meant to enforce his superiority.  
“She doesn't look like a bandit,” Cylle said before she could stop to think. Disbelief hung in the air and made the ensuing silence thick and heavy. “I don't see a, a sword or dagger. Or treasure. She's not even wearing leathers.”  
“I _told you I'm not with them_ ,” the girl repeated, and was shoved for her troubles. She near lost her balance, but none of the men made any attempt to save her. One took his sword out and laid the flat of it across her shoulders when she didn't fall down.  
“You keep your mouth shut, demon. You'll get the blade soon enough, once these... travellers move on.”  
That hand was on the small of her back again and pressing in what could only be described as an insistent manner, but she ignored it. “I don't think so,” she heard herself saying. “I won't let you murder her in cold blood. That's not what soldiers do.” The one that looked to be in charge furrowed his bushy brow and readjusted his grip on his sword-hilt. Behind him, the one soldier that still had his sword sheathed removed the scabbard and threw it to the floor.  
“And you're going to stop us?"

She drew her own sword and took a step backwards, falling into a more comfortable stance. From the corner of her eyes she saw Khelgar with his axe in his hands and a terrifying grin on his face. Blood was pulsing loudly through her ears.  
“You know,” one of the other soldiers was saying. “Vallis might pay for three bounties – he's not really one for asking questions. Especially not about...”  
The commander finished the man's sentence for him. “A demon, a runty dwarf, and a dirty Harborman who doesn't know when to keep walking? Yeah, I-”  
“ _Runty dwarf_?”

That was more than enough to speed the encounter to its natural conclusion. Khelgar charged forward, and the soldiers moved forward to meet him. The horned girl squealed and did her best to regain her balance after being shoved once more, and rolled out of the way when she crashed to her knees. Sword met axe-head, axe-head very quickly met an armoured chest, and Cylle found herself duelling two men at once. It became instantly clear that neither man was well-trained; one was so intent with his swordplay that he seemed surprised when she kicked at his shins and felled him, and the other let his guard open wide when he jumped back from a cut she made. She followed, jabbed hard, and split his thigh open to the bone. A quick glance at Khelgar showed him to be fully in his element. The commander's head was tilted too far back, the throat open so wide it was a wonder it didn't just fall off completely, and the second man he faced threw his sword down and ran in the other direction.

“What'll we do with this last?” he asked as he turned to face her. The one with the cut thigh had his hands wrapped around the injury and was pale, but the one she had simply kicked was getting to his feet again. His eyes darted between them, quick and desperate.  
“Yield. I _yield_ ,” he said, and then tried to hurt Cylle when she put up her sword. A heavy axe handle swept his feet from under him again, and then he was being turned over by the dwarf, who promptly sat on his chest and grinned down at the foolish man.  
“Best go see the damsel in distress,” he said cheerfully. Cylle left him to deliver whatever speech he had prepared to the hapless soldier.

The horned girl was crouched away from the carnage, by a large wooden box that was sitting with its lid wide open, and her eyes went large when she was approached. She'd pulled on leathers hurriedly while the battle had been raging that had no doubt been kept in the box, but they were well-worn and offered very little protection. She wasn't hurt anywhere obvious, but she flinched when her rescuer reached out to her. “Give me your hands,” Cylle had to prompt, and slashed carefully through the bonds that were tied far too tight. The rope fell away, and the girl rubbed her wrists gently, staring all the while. It was beginning to prove unnerving, and as she was wondering whether it would have been better to leave her after all-  
“ _Wow_ ,” she breathed. “Wow! You- you _actually saved me_!” A huge smile split her face in two, and the strange feeling returned to the pit of Cylle's stomach. It felt less like kneading now, more fluttery, and a little uncomfortable. “That was amazing, I thought you were gonna walk right by-!”  
“I reckon we ought have.” Khelgar joined them, axe slung across his back once more. There was no noise from the direction he had come from, and very deliberately, she did not turn to look. “A tiefling,” he added as he looked over the girl carefully. “Cylle, there's being a good heart, and then there's being an outright moron.”  
“We did what was _right_ ,” she protested. Guilt tried to settle in her stomach, and she ignored it. “No one should be treated like that.”  
“Aye, what was right, but I'll not sleep better for it.”

She shrugged and ignored the scowl that was delivered her way, and turned back to the tiefling. “Are you alright? You're not hurt?” If it was possible, that innocent question made her eyes grow even larger.  
“I... yes, I'm fine. You- you're _nice_.” She shook her head. “I don't mean to sound surprised, I mean, I – well, I am! It's... unexpected. Usually people run in the other direction, or... well, you saw,” she gestured at the fallen bodies of the soldiers. “It's the horns, I think. Scares people. And I guess all those tales about tieflings being cursed don't help much, either. But you're not scared,” she added, and fixed Cylle with a narrower gaze, as though trying to figure her out. “And you feel weird, too. I mean, you- don't feel like a normal person. You're not _holy_ , are you? If there's one thing that rubs me the wrong way, it's the devout-”  
There were so many words being thrown her way that Cylle felt as though the ground had been ripped away from her. She had to shake her head, remember that there was dust and soil beneath her boots, and finally throw up a hand to get the girl to stop talking. Making sense of the barrage of words after that was a little easier. “My name is Cylle,” she started, carefully, cautiously. As feared, that prompted the girl to start talking again.  
“Oh! I'm Neeshka. You really did come at just the right time, I mean, that potion I bought? Utterly useless...”  
The open hand shut her up again, and this time she tilted her head to one side. She looked for all the world like an inquisitive bird put into a nearly human form. Wearily, Cylle began to talk.

They started moving before they finished talking, doing both slowly and haltingly. First they moved away from the soldiers' bodies, which were beginning to attract wolves and carrion birds, and Khelgar took the lead after that, finding a path that took them winding around and up the hill the fort sat on. All sorts of questions were asked and answered by both parties: Cylle affirmed that yes, she worshipped a deity, and no, she wasn't a paladin, and eventually explained gently that she was an aasimar, and maybe that's why Neeshka could feel _goodness_ radiating from her, and, um, that means that prickling is because you're a demon, right? They stared at one another for a moment, the tiefling wary, the aasimar bemused, and they shook hands, agreeing not to get on each other's nerves any more than possible. Neeshka immediately jumped into an explanation of why she had been captured – something to do with a watered-down potion – and either failed to notice or outright ignored the weary silence she was talking at. Travelling with Khelgar had been just fine, for she was able to tune things out here and there, but this new addition to their party talked and asked questions, endless questions, and then talked some more. She had to pay attention. By the time they reached the top of the hill, Cylle was as weary as she had ever been, and shot a pleading look Khelgar's way. The dwarf ignored her. He and the tiefling had traded insults before they'd started climbing and had already adopted a disagreeable silence between one another. _What a strange crew we must look,_ Cylle thought, and smiled to herself.

Before they came up to the open gate, Neeshka had pleaded with them to stop and asked if she might be able to stick with them until they'd passed through the fort, at the very least. “There'll probably be more men like those soldiers down there,” she explained. “I just want to pass through, and I don't know how well I'll be able to survive by myself. But you guys, you're the kind of people folks'll respect and listen to! So if I tag along...” Khelgar wanted none of it, naturally, but Cylle elected to ignore him. _If she wants to stab us in the back then we're at least capable of taking care of her._ She agreed to the request, but left her own few misgivings unsaid. She didn't need to add any vitriol to the mix, not when the dwarf kept muttering things about _untrustworthy girls with horns_ despite the silence he'd vowed to upkeep around her. They were a party of three now, and she made it clear that they _weren't_ going to cause trouble in this place, and they carried on to the fort once she had both party's grudging consent.  
It was even larger up here than it had seemed at the bottom of the hill: Cylle had to tilt her head back to see the top of the spikes, and couldn't help gawking despite herself. The tiefling pressed close as they entered, so close that she could feel the warmth of her blood through two piece of clothing, and no guardsman approached them. It was smaller on the inside than it looked: there was an open-air temple and several small houses with armoured men coming and going from them, and a large gaggle of men and women in plainclothes huddled around campfires away from the soldiers.  
“A barracks, a priest, and refugees,” Khelgar announced. “Just another sorry settlement on the road. I doubt we'll be welcome here for long.”

It even smelled different to West Harbor, though not in a way that she could describe well. There was a _clang-clang_ somewhere as a smithy hammered a sword against his anvil, and the longer they dawdled, the more guardsmen were giving them strange looks. Pretty soon their glances had pressed Neeshka full against her side, and she found herself being steered into shadows and away from everyone's eyes. Naturally, this only caused people to stare more, and it wasn't long before she was prying two hot hands off her forearms.  
“No one's going to hurt you,” she had to reassure the tiefling, who didn't look convinced in the slightest. “Stay by my side, but don't push me about, okay? I can't walk properly with four legs.” Her weak attempt at humour did little to soothe the other girl, but it allowed her to walk without being suffocated, and soon enough Neeshka was standing with her back straight and doing her best to ignore the eyes on her horns and tail. “You're doing great,” she whispered, and was rewarded with a tiny smile.

All in all, the fort was not as different as she had expected it to be. It was a little disappointing; she had travelled all this way and made her feet ache for what felt like very little. _But this is not the port town,_ she reminded herself. _And after that, the city. I bet that's different_. So engrossed in her thoughts was she that she didn't hear someone yelling her name, and only stopped when Neeshka took her arm again and squeezed it gently.  
“Over there,” the tiefling pointed at a soldier that was coming close, and then she took what Cylle was already starting to think of as _the usual position_ behind her back, cowering again. The man drew closer and closer, and he seemed more than a little familiar.  
“A Harborman, right?” he was saying. Cylle blinked, surprised. “Don't look like that – it's written all over your face. After the village, a place as grand as this makes you want to stand and stare all day, right?” he laughed at her lack of response and held a hand out. “Marshal Cormick. I didn't mean to startle-”  
Her jaw fell open. “Cormick? _The_ Cormick?” He nodded, and she felt as though she ought to kneel. “You won the Harvest Fair!”

It was an utterly ridiculous thing to yell at someone after just meeting them, and he looked confused for a moment, but understanding came to him very soon, and he laughed loudly. He was handsome when he laughed. “People are still talking about that?” He had a slight twang to his words, an accent that was mostly West Harbor but not entirely, but it seemed to suit him.  
“Only because I finally bested you,” she said, and drew herself up, proud. “I won the Cup, just the other day. _And_ the cloak.”  
“Well, well. Finally, someone competent enough to rival me.” He stared down at her, hands on his hips, and broke into laughter again. “How about that. I suppose news isn't the most common of things down there. I'm more'n just a Fair winner now, though,” he added, and turned so she could see the shield that rested on his back. It was painted deep blue, its emblem a white eye dripping three tears. “I'm part of the City Watch back in Neverwinter. Not that it's something to boast about when I know there are greater people than me out there, but it's better than farming day in and out.” Turning once more, he lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Come on, now, stop staring. Least you can do is remind me your name.”  
“Ah... Cylle. Ferravae.” Cormick frowned, tapped a finger against his lips. “Daeghun took me in, after-”  
“After Esmerelle died. I remember now. Gods, the eyes ought to have given it away.” He winked, ran his eyes over her companions – who were both no doubt staring – and ran a hand through his hair. “If you're this far from West Harbor, I can only assume someone sent you. Off to Neverwinter? No, you don't have to tell me,” he stopped her before she could launch into an explanation. “Your business is your own, and you really shouldn't go around spilling your plans to everyone you meet, even if you think you can trust them. Not that I don't care, but I've enough on my plate here without taking care of your problems as well. Banditry, refugees... Don't look now, but the man in front of the temple, talking to the brother? That's Lieutenant Vallis, who refuses to patrol the roads of the Mere...” He stopped, offered Cylle an apologetic smile. “But them's the breaks, I suppose. If you're just passing through, I shouldn't stop you, but if you have the time...”

Over a week later saw their feet aching but no further north. At Cylle's insistence they had stopped in Fort Locke to help Cormick out with one or two small things, and the chores had simply kept piling up. First it had been running messages from the barracks to the smithy and back again; then it was asking Vallis to start patrols and being turned away; then the brother had approached them with a request to search for his missing tablet; then the refugees had placed their hopes in her... The list of things seemed to have no end. They had been sent out of Fort Locke as many times as fingers on a single hand on errands that felt both important and meaningless, and Cormick had left five days into their stay. “I have to get back to the city,” he'd said, and then asked them once more to try and get patrols running. Cylle had nodded and sworn to do her best, and after finally persuading Vallis to let them do his work for him, they'd found themselves in a graveyard of all places, looking for his missing men. Her companions were beginning to grumble, and rightfully so – she was half-tempted herself to forget about the responsibilities she'd taken on and keep travelling north, but she _knew_ she would regret it if she did. Helping people had gotten her into trouble before, when she'd been younger. If there was someone in need, no matter how small, she'd felt responsible and always tried to take their duties on for them, at the cost of her own temper. She'd done things for people as useless as find pebbles of a certain size before, and tried to make Daeghun let her help with counting his cold once or twice. Never before had she found herself sat around a campfire in a crypt, however. _As more and more time passes I'm finding myself do crazier things._

They'd fought their way through the shambling undead 'til it felt like they'd never feel the touch of sun on their skin again and found the missing soldiers, but they had yet to get out. Tann was the commander's name, and they had rescued him from a man with a face hidden behind a mask who'd raised the dead as effortlessly as breathing. All the commander knew, he'd shared with them once they'd found his two men that had survived the first journey there and barricaded themselves in a room. He'd said most of the undead forces were now mouldering in the crypts again, that Cylle had trounced the strange priest's ranks as thoroughly as any man could have hoped to do, but it didn't fill her with joy like she'd expected. _This is an adventure, and I'm doing well_ , she tried to reassure herself, but it didn't feel like success when she was hidden from the sun and everthing she did was wrapped up in violence. She'd taken first watch that night and spent most of it praying to Lliira. She'd woken with her spirits a little lighter, and they'd resurfaced without a problem.  
“Now for the boring part,” Tann had laughed, and they'd made their way back to the fort as slowly as they dared. One of the commander's men had been hurt pretty badly, and they'd had to fashion a crutch for him from a broken branch to keep him moving. None of them wanted to linger in the place of the dead.

It took a day and a half for them to return to Fort Locke. Neeshka stayed by her side for all the time they had company, saying little, much to Cylle's surprise and Khelgar's relief. No doubt she was scared of the soldiers; after the would-be murderers at the base of the fort it was little surprise, but after her introduction and the energy she seemed in constant possession of, her silence was unnerving. Cylle asked her what was wrong as they were going back.  
“Huh? Nothing much,” was the answer, but the aasimar was having none of it, and demanded she open up. “Well, you know,” she eventually pried loose. “Everyone thanks you when you help out, and the smelly dwarf, too, but I'm just ignored all the time. Like I don't exist, you know? And I _know_ , I ought to be used to it, and all that stuff, but I can't help being what I am any more than you or they can. It's just a little annoying,” she tacked on. “Nothing to get worried about.”  
Cylle had mulled that over, and when dusk fell and they'd stopped for a short break, taken the other girl's hand gently and said, “You have _my_ thanks for helping.” That had stunned the tiefling into silence, and her cheeks went red, and Cylle knew she herself was flushing as well. She'd dropped the hand and they'd sat in silence for the rest of the break, and after that whenever she prayed, she asked the lady of joy to bestow her gift on her new-found friend as well.

Vallis had been waiting for them to return with sword and shackles in hand. They'd resisted and fought and ultimately died in the struggle, as did another of Tann's men, and the commander had looked inexplicably weary as he thanked Cylle and her entourage for their help. “I'll set things aright,” he'd said, and parted ways with them once they entered the fort to restore order once more. Without Cormick around to chatter with, Locke felt an empty place, and with command back in its rightful place, there was no reason for them to dawdle further. No doubt there would be yet more people asking for her help if they stayed overlong, and when she told Khelgar and Neeshka that they were to leave at once with whatever they needed, both cheered. It was the first thing they'd agreed on since they'd met, and Cylle couldn't help but laugh as they both fell into a sulk. “You two are more alike than you think,” she said, and earned two glares for her trouble. She only laughed the harder, and told them to gather their things for departure. After that she was alone, blessedly alone for the first time in too long, able to sleep or eat or spend her coin as she wished without the _tsk tsk_ of another person over her shoulder. There was little enough she needed, aside from a new whetstone and enough provisions to last her a week, and once they were bought and placed carefully at the bottom of her bag she had nothing to do but wander. After spending so long here, the garrison and refugees alike had become accustomed to Neeshka, who now was able to walk without fear of being accosted once again, and the soldiers had instantly taken a liking to Khelgar, who could outfight and outdrink any one of them. Without one or both presences at her side, she felt just a little lonely, and more than once she turned, thinking she felt eyes on her. Every time there was nothing there, and she was reminded of a hazy feeling of being watched in the Mere. _There's no one there, stop jumping at shadows._ She was unable to banish the feeling no matter how hard she tried, and she thought of Daeghun again, able to melt into shadow as though it were a second skin. Neeshka was the first to return from gathering supplies, and she was glad for the renewed company. Her arms were covered in gooseflesh, though the day was still warm, and this time it was she who pressed close to the tiefling, who didn't make mention of it. Instead they sat in silence, waiting for the dwarf to return, and eventually took a seat upon the broken stone of Ilmater's temple. Cylle's legs were long enough to reach the ground, but no such luck for the tiefling, who contented herself with swinging her legs and thumping her heels against the rock.

“Thanks,” she said suddenly. “Thanks for- well, everything. You've kept me safe, you've given me food and water... Don't think I don't hear you praying at night, either. For _me._ You're a good person, Cylle. Better than I deserve, anyway. I just wanted... thank you.”  
Her raw honesty took Cylle completely by surprise. “You're... you're welcome. It's not really anything, but-”  
“Nothing? I'm a _tiefling_ and you're saying it's nothing to be proud of, that it doesn't set you apart from the rest of the world? You're a better person than I thought. Really,” she said, and stopped swinging her legs. “Thank you. It doesn't feel weird being around you anymore, either. I've either gotten used to that weird twisty gut thing or it's stopped happening altogether.”

When the dwarf finally showed up, he was four tankards of ale drunker than he had been when they'd seen him last, claiming it was necessary for him to be able to stomach the sight of the tiefling. The girl in question merely stuck her tongue out at him and jumped down from the rock.  
“Let's leave this dump, already! You got everything? Potions, weapons? Brains in your head? Not _yours_ , runty, you never had a brain to start with. Let's get _moving_ already, I want to be out of here!”  
She dodged Khelgar's swipe easily enough and jogged backwards to avoid any further swings. She waggled her tongue as she did so, and laughed at the way the dwarf roared. Cylle had seen such displays before: sometimes particularly brave birds would swoop down and pluck at the hairs on a dog's tail, and fly just out of reach, chattering all the while. It was always amusing to watch the animals at their play, and she found herself laughing before they'd even left the safety of the tall stakes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are we _ever_ going to stop walking?”

They'd been trudging north for what felt like forever. The going was slow, but sure, and every day saw the well-trodden path going north from the fort become just that little bit harder to follow. By the third day the trail was non-existent, but that did not stop them from pressing on. “We're headed in the right direction, you mark me,” Khelgar had said, though even his enthusiasm had waned the further they walked. At least they were well clear of the marsh. Before, the ground had sucked at their boots insistently should they stray too far from what little road there was. _Bog-kisses,_ Cylle called them, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She doubted heavily whether either companion wanted stories of travellers gone astray to while away the hours.

That did not mean the days were empty of talk. Neeshka had taken to switching rapidly between insults and happy chatter, depending on which direction she was facing. It had been disorienting at first, but they had quickly gotten used to it, and so much time spent in close quarters meant that they had learnt one another's bad habits quicker than they'd hoped to. Neeshka talked too much, Khelgar had traded in his gruff silence for abuse that came too easily to him whenever a certain redhead was involved, and Cylle knew parts of her probably bugged the others. Still, it was better than travelling alone and in silence. Never before had she had such... _colourful_ companions, nor had she even imagined people like these could exist. Those she'd known or been under the wing of back in West Harbor had nurtured a good-humoured indifference at best, with exceptions to the rule here and there. Any babe that needed sitting got the same treatment, and she had been no different when Daeghun had been away from home. She had thought that she'd known what people were like, but that had been long since proven false. Even the friends she'd had were different in what felt like every single way – where Amie's boasts had been founded from nothing and often grounded with doubt and worry, Khelgar had the experience to back up all his talk, tall or otherwise. Neeshka's instinctual wariness was a better lookout than Bevil could have ever been, and every moment they weren't moving she had a dagger out, practising new ways to toss it from hand to hand without dropping it. For herself, Cylle felt much the same, and it was that which was throwing her. There was a large part of her mind that knew she ought to be feeling different, even a little. _I've travelled further than I've ever done before, put a stop to villainy in Fort Locke. It's like I've been thrust into a story_. Despite that, she felt at home on the road with these people. They were the breath of fresh air she hadn't realised she'd been waiting for. It was such an adventure that she would even forget about the carefully wrapped slice of silver in her boot, though it always came back to her with a pang of guilt. _I wasn't meant to leave home to have fun._ She wondered if the mother she'd never known had enjoyed the world as much as she was doing now – and decided with a fierce burst of pride that yes, she had done, and her daughter was going to do the same.

She could make her mind up over and over, but that did little to change the world around them. It felt like all Faerûn had to offer was rocks or trees or the occasional puddle, but even that she could not bring herself to mind. Every moment was filled with entertainment, whether it was in the return of a question or simply watching the other two bicker. Anything more would have been _too_ exciting. All the surprises the recent past had gifted her had needed a blade in hand, something she would never jump at the chance to use. The sword itself was at her hip now, a weight that she was only just able to put out of mind until the evening fell again. Though no more bladelings had interrupted their journey, her swordwork had had no excuse to suffer. Khelgar and Neeshka had agreed for the first time that she would have to keep working at it. “Sloppy as a newborn,” the dwarf had commented, and after that she had been made to fight with one or the other once camp had been made at night. It was tiring work, and painful too, but she was coming away from each session with a few less bruises the more they kept at it. Not that that stopped her skin from being mottled underneath her clothes, and every movement was an ache, but it was better than nothing. The worst part was being unable to stop touching them. She'd been bad at letting alone both scabs and loose teeth as a child, and even having the tiefling threaten to tie her hands up wasn't enough to stop her prodding at sore spots during the day. Come nightfall, before they lay their heads down, they'd inspect her arms and legs to see if any other interesting colours had sprouted under her skin.

That was another thing that she hadn't expected to become so easily accustomed to. She had found early on that keeping her leathers on from sunrise to sunrise meant her thighs chafed painfully. There was little and less she could do about the pace, for it was better they reached Neverwinter soon, and the only way to minimize the discomfort was to strip off at the end of each day's march. At first her cheeks had burned and she had curled up in on herself, embarrassed about her body, but the shame had quickly receded. Khelgar stared at her skin only to comment on whatever bruise had risen since the last time they'd stopped, and if she noticed Neeshka glancing from the side of her eyes she made no comment. It was only fair, she reasoned, for she herself had been sneaking less than subtle glances at the other girl's tail whenever she got the chance. She made certain at the end of every day that she was covered well enough that not everything was bared to the air – and it was growing colder, too; she could not be expected to sleep through the night in the nude. A shirt, now dirtied from its time on the road, and her smalls were enough to save what remained of her dignity.

In fact, the whole experience could very nearly have been described as pleasant. Were it not for her nightly spars and the few biting insects that they could not seem to escape, everything would have felt perfect... until they stopped to inspect a map one day and wondered just how far they'd gone from the main road. Their collective patience seemed to have vanished immediately, and the chatter was replaced with a sullen silence as they trudged on, unable to admit to a mistake one of them might have made. What the others were thinking, she could not say, but Cylle herself was wishing that they had never strayed from the path. _Father said to stay as hidden as possible, but I bet he didn't think I'd get lost. So what if we'd stayed on the road and were seen – we'd probably be further to Neverwinter, and I'd be closer to having this whole business done with_. Thinking bitter thoughts did nothing to change the past, however, and they were forced to continue on. Trees surrounded them from every side until they burst out into what seemed to be a valley of sorts, the end of which could not be seen. From somewhere far off an animal cried to the sky, and they each shared an uneasy look. If the valley were full of dangerous beasts...

Thankfully, that was not the case. They continued on, grumbling as one about this or that. Cylle was about to ask what the sea smelled like when the shadows ahead moved and caught her attention. No, not shadows. _A wolf_ , was her next thought, but even that was wrong. It was a whole group of people – more than she could count on one hand – and though they were mostly cloaked by the long shadows the trees threw into the valley she could tell they were her pursuers come again. She groaned, all thoughts of the sea disappeared. Khelgar echoed her displeasure. “This is just tiresome now, lass. Any reason why we're being hounded all over the land?”

“I wish I knew.”

They slowed their pace as they approached, hands seeking out the hilts of their weapons. They had been seen, of course – they were not the ones who stepped in and out of shadows, using the land to hide themselves, and they'd been making enough noise to be heard from miles away. The other group was at attention now, and they spread out to block the rest of the path off. Several of the grey-skinned dwarves held crossbows.  
“No place left to run, _Kalach-Cha_ ,” the bladeling said once they stopped several paces away. It was not the first time they'd seen one, but this one was stationary. Cylle wondered if its rasp was caused by the too-large tongue that must spend most of its time furled up in its mouth, or the way its top row of teeth jutted forward. Its skin was leathery, making it difficult to tell whether it was wearing leathers or not. That alone made it an obscene thing. “The shard you have stolen. Hand it over, and we will let you live.”

She doubted those words very much. With crossbows trained on all three of them, and late afternoon sunlight glinting off drawn swords, it seemed as though they would be killed no matter if they chose to heed their request or not. “I don't trust you,” she said, and her fingers tightened around the hilt of her own sword.  
“ _Hand the shard over_ ,” it repeated, “or we will take it from your corpse.”  
Cylle's answer was to draw her blade. She could see at the corner of her vision her companions mimicking her, which heartened her. The bladeling made a throaty noise, possibly laughter, and started to stalk forward. It didn't notice what its prey did: tendrils of weeds sprouting from the earth and wrapping themselves around the ankles of its duergar thralls. Something _thrummed_ through the air, and the bladeling froze with its sword held high before toppling over. A steel bolt was sunk deep into its back. One of the duergar was standing with the crossbow lifted high, its weapon empty, and the shaft aimed at the space the bladeling had been occupying until a moment ago. Vines had curled their way all up his body, wrapping around its torso and along its arms, even. There was no mistaking its actions for its own, especially not when it threw the crossbow down and whirled to face its brethren, all whom were ensnared in the same fashion. It seemed that they were going to stare at one another, weapons still drawn... then an axe was swung, a head went rolling off to the base of the far hill, and one by one the duergar felled each other until there was but one left standing. Even he was given no respite, no chance to run and save his skin. The vines simply tightened about him until parts of him _cracked_ terribly and his knees gave out. Barely a minute had passed and the slaughter was already over. Neither Cylle nor her companions had moved a muscle, and found their eyes drawn to the carnage until the shadows moved once again.

It was a thin slip of an elf that came into view next. A wicked looking sickle was hanging from the cord about her waist, but her hands were empty and the palms held up and open at the group to prove her intentions were pure. “Forgive me,” she said to them, her words free of any accent. “I could not let myself stand by while you were attacked once again. I do not think I am the only one that has a problem with the path you walk, Harborman.” That was aimed at Cylle, and she let her hands drop to her side. “If at all possible, I would like to help you. I do not think you will reach your destination, otherwise.” Cylle took her lead and sheathed her own sword, though no one else moved to follow suit.  
“You speak like you know me. Like you've been watching me,” she hazarded.  
“I have.”  
The answer came easily, without apology, as though it were an obvious thing and not to be explained any further than that. With it came a hard gaze from eyes the colour of moonlight. No doubt that same gaze would have cowed many others, but the Harborman had been trained by a similar look for all her childhood, and merely straightened her back. “For how long?”  
I watch all within the Mere,” came the answer, which was not really an answer. “But only occasionally do I watch those who stray from it. I have shadowed you for long enough, and now I would walk with you. I am Elanee,” she added, “And you are Cylle Ferravae, daughter of the ranger Daeghun Farlong. I do not know your companions.”

A lot of things started happening at once. Khelgar tried to speak and found Neeshka speaking over him, which only saw him increasing his own volume, and soon enough the two were yelling insults at one another. A squirrel skittered into the clearing, paused to wash its ears, and ran away again. The wind chose that moment to pick up and blew hard enough that Cylle's hair flew into her face, tickling the tip of her nose. Something Khelgar said had the newcomer frowning and adding her own salt to the argument, and then there was laughter, sharp and cruel, and then she was holding her hands up and feeling old and weary. “Enough. Enough, please. The two of you, be quiet and let _me_ do the talking.”  
“Always talking,” Khelgar said. He crossed his arms. “First to the half-demons, and now the elves, and who knows what in the future. It'll end badly, I tell ye.”  
“And who knows where it might lead us next?” the half-demon shot back at him. “ _Stow it_.”  
“Enough, I said.” That shut their mouths again, though she could feel the resentment hang heavy in the air between all three of them. The elf had not said another word since being silenced the first time, and for that Cylle was grateful, but not so much for the look she was being pinned by. Those were not eyes that could have things hidden from them. “You're a...” she fumbled for a moment, trying to bring to mind where she might have seen worn robes like that before. Elanee supplied the answer for her.  
“A _tree-worshipper_ , as your friend so delicately put it. Just as you have the stink of a Harborman upon you, thick enough to cloud your senses. You've fallen through bushes and brambles, missed the most obvious of paths... more importantly, those creatures have caught you what feels like a million times over. One such as I could _help_ you. Did you think of that?”  
 _I think of a great many things, but at least insults don't head that list._ “We did not mean to offend,” she offered instead, and shot Khelgar a filthy glare that was rather lost on him. Being shorter than most meant that he did not have to meet eyes with everyone. “I hope my apologies for all of us will suffice. But before that – you haven't answered my question. How long have you been following us for, and is there anyone else that could have done so?”

The elf thought, shrugged, and then launched into an explanation of what she had been doing. It made Cylle feel only a little uncomfortable – that this woman had been keeping up with them every step of the way, watching while they bantered and ate and slept and – heavens forbid that she'd kept her eyes trained on them when they'd stopped to pass water. From the way she spun her tale, she'd been originally tracking the strange leather-skinned creatures that had been after the aasimar, although she did not explain where the distinction had blurred or why she had chosen to keep her eyes on this unruly group rather than their _other_ set of stalkers, or even why she had remained hidden for so long. She spoke of a quicker path to the port town than the one they were currently taking, through a sanctuary sacred to druids, and offered to lead them there and true, away from further attacks.

“What do you know of those bladelings?”  
“I assume that is a title you have bestowed upon them. Of them, little. They are not of the land, that much I have discerned... They smell strange, and their speech is unlike anything I have ever heard, impossible to make out. They call you _Kalach-Cha_. Do you know what it means?”  
“I had hoped you would know.”  
“Then we have little to offer each other in the way of answers, it seems.” That had her frowning, and Cylle realised with a stab of jealousy that she was pretty. Lithe in the way that only elves were, she carried herself with an air of mysticism that suited her well, and there was no trace of fear coming from her. “Those hunters want something from you, and they are determined to stop you from reaching your destination. I feel it my duty to stop them. Do I have permission to join your ranks?”

It was a question that did not feel as though it had more than one answer. Half-hearted, Cylle shrugged her shoulders as best she could and made a non-committal shake of her head. “If what you say is true, we don't have much of a choice. We'd welcome your company.”  
What looked like a smile made its way onto the elf's face for a moment. It was coloured with satisfaction and disappeared just as quick as it appeared. “That wasn't so hard to admit,” she said, at the same time as Khelgar about exploded with indignation. It took what felt like another age to get him to quiet again, though this time they did not so much succeed as put off the inevitable for a while longer. Elanee did not seem particularly perturbed by the disruption. “If sun and trail and your path 'til now read true, you are bound for Neverwinter. Seeking safety behind walls?”  
Chewing on her lip, Cylle weighed her options. She could explain, or she could shrug off the question. Neither option appealed to her. “Something like that,” she said carefully. “I've an uncle in the city, who I must visit. He might have information for me.” The elf's gaze did not waver, and she felt her own resolution falter somewhat at the insistent stare. “On a shard I possess.”  
“The one in your boot?”

 _Hells, she really has been watching us this entire time. Knows us better than we do, most like_. It was a little more than unnerving to have something so secret shoved in her face. _Would that I could do a better job of hiding things_. “The same,” she allowed.  
“Then that is probably what draws these... bladelings. I believe the one I fell earlier said much the same. If that is their purpose, then it benefits us all to keep it from them. I thank you for telling me,” she added, and smiled truly this time. It was a pretty thing, precious, and gone again too soon. “Let us be on our way. The glade is not far, and I have little doubt you are all weary.”  
They were, and it was a comfort to know that there was a place to rest only a short distance from where they stood. Elanee led them onward, through the valley and away from whatever non-existent trail they had been attempting to follow. Through forests and fields they wound, speaking little – the elf did not care to tell them where they were, or how to escape the woodlands, and they did not care enough to ask. She was sure-footed if nothing else, picking the easiest route time and time again. Where without her the group would have most likely spent time scaling fallen trees or bickering over whether a sight seemed familiar or not, she led them around what they could not go over and never once paused to look for the right way. As they walked, Cylle tried to remember what she knew of druids, and found the answer to be little and less. _Keepers of the earth who can transform into a beast of their choosing with but a breath and a thought_ , she thought, but how much of that was truth and how much was tale she did not know. Daeghun had spoken rarely of professions that did not trust in the bow or the sword, and druids used neither. Her eye kept being drawn back to the sickle that was tucked away so carefully, and wondered how on earth one was meant to strike true at an enemy with a blade so curved. _They'd melt away before you had a chance to hit_.

The shadows had grown long when Cylle called for them to stop. Her feet were aching, hot inside their boots, and her thighs felt as though they had been chafed to bleeding. “We're a long way from the road. You're sure you know where you're going? How much longer?”  
The elf smiled patiently. It was a look that might have sat well upon Cylle's father had he been a touch more felicitous. Neeshka echoed the sentiment, taking the opportunity to rise up onto her toes in an attempt to shift her weight elsewhere. Judging by her expression, it did not work. “We are already here,” they were told. The tiefling made a rude sound. Elanee ignored it. “This is _Eridis_... the Maiden's Glade, in your tongue. I use its true name that was bestowed upon it before Neverwinter settlers set foot here and gave it a new one.”  
“Did they _ever_ set foot here? I can barely see where we're going.”  
Cylle had to resist the urge to slap first Neeshka and then Khelgar, as the latter began to say something – no doubt to tell her it was easier at half the height, or something equally ridiculous. Their bickering did nothing to faze their guide, who merely waited for the discussion to come to a close. Cylle wondered how she managed it. _If being a druid means you get to tap into a font of eternal patience, perhaps I missed my calling._  
“The glade ahead was once a retreat for druids; a place of shelter should they ever need to rest or heal themselves. Many places like this exist along the Sword Coast that you would never be able to find without guidance.” She led them further on as she spoke, into an open area that seemed more peaceful than anything else they had come across since leaving Fort Locke. The glade was ringed by trees, and there was not a cloud in the sky that they could see. The air was crisp and inviting, almost sweet-smelling. Collectively they took a breath, held it, let it go again. “Not only is it impossible to come here without knowing the way, the animals here protect us druids. Should your pursuers have followed us this far, we will not be alone in our battles.”

The glade itself was an impossible comfort in the wilderness. Here the travellers could hear the trickling of a stream, and the calls of one bird to another, and the way the leaves rustled with the wind. It was little different from the rest of the world that they had tread upon so far as the eye could see, but nonetheless it felt different – as though shielding them from the world and all the horrors it held. Perhaps they would have felt otherwise, had the elf no told them of its intended use. Cylle took a deep breath and closed her eyes, to better let the world wash over her. Somewhere an animal keened, and others answered its cry. They sounded close... but Elanee had assured them the wildlife was friendly.

When she opened her eyes again, the elf in question was looking uncomfortable, and the animals cried again. They sounded closer, now, and when they called for a third time they were visible amongst the far press of trees, bounding ever closer. “They don't look very friendly,” Neeshka allowed, and Cylle was inclined to agree with her. Even paces away she could see slobber hanging in great rivulets from their jaws. From an early age she had been taught that wolves and other beasts on four legs that were not trained to sit were dangerous – Bevil's dogs had been the pinnacle of trust she'd had with animals, and even that had been tenuous. They'd been tall enough to bump their noses against her hip, and they'd nipped from time to time when accepting morsels from the table. They had been friendly. These shaggy coated beasts were most definitely _not_. “Elanee!”

The druidess called something to the wolves, something flowing and Elvish, but the wolves neither slowed nor stopped. Her incantation caught the attention of one of the beasts, which changed its path to leap at her, powerful muscles allowing it to clear so much ground in a single fluid movement. Elanee caught the muzzle with her forearm, and deftly unhooked the sickle from her waistband. There was one wolf for each of them: Cylle was able to cow hers with several jabs, and was able to strike its head off when Khelgar yelled at it, distracting it. Neeshka had been knocked down by hers and on the verge of having her throat torn out, though the dwarf was able to easily wrestle it off her and deliver it a swift death. His own had disappeared. The one that had gone for their guide lay limp on the floor, the earth underneath slowly being stained a dark red, and Elanee herself was clutching her injured arm close to her chest. The roughspun fabric of her robes had been torn and the flesh savaged, that much was obvious at a single look, but the elf had not cried out once.

It seemed as though she did not trust herself to try and speak. Her face had gone pale and her lips were pressed tightly together. When Cylle told her to sit, she sank down as though the bones in her legs had simply disappeared, and offered her arm to be bandaged up without any fuss. There were only two packs of dressings in the pack they shared, and half of a healing potion. The potion did little to staunch the blood, the injury beyond simple healing, and when the final knot was tied about the bandages, no one could fail to see that they were already being stained pink. “Those animals were _frightened_ ,” she said in a voice much different from her own. She sounded shaken, worried to the point of exhaustion.  
“And now they're dead,” the dwarf proclaimed.  
“Which might not have been a kindness,” she shot back. “There is usually at least one druid in the glade, and they ought to have been aware of the beasts, their discomfort... and _us_.”  
“Can we avoid them? I for one don't especially want to be attacked anymore.”  
“Well _I_ say we fight them. They attack us, we attack them.”  
“You would say that-”  
“ _I_ think we should stay out of as much trouble as possible,” Cylle cut in before they could resume their usual fighting, all too mindful that every moment wasted arguing was a moment the elf was not being healed. “Elanee, can you stand?”

The glade no longer felt so serene after their welcoming party, and they moved cautiously now, jumping at every shadow and rustle of the leaves. None of them wanted to stop and rest in a place where they were not truly safe, so no one suggested making camp when Neeshka yawned. Cylle kept close to the elf, who insisted on leading them out, her bad arm cradled by the other. It was a testament to her strength of will that she did not complain of any pain, though the skin had been well and truly torn open earlier, and when they came across the slaughtered corpses of yet more wolves she stopped to examine them.  
“They were not killed for a reason,” she decided. “Not for food, nor out of blood lust. Whatever is wrong here is wrong with the glade itself. I'd thought the Circle would be aware of any disturbance... but it seems that task now falls to us. To me,” she amended, and sought Cylle's eyes with her own. “We must-”  
“We must _what_?” Neeshka broke in. She looked furious. “Stomp through more groves and get attacked by more animals, be blown further away from the path we're trying to follow? Other people we can fight well enough, but things that move _that_ quickly are another matter. And look at you, you're bleeding, you won't be any help. What do you want us to do, Elanee? Find something even bigger and more angry and get our faces torn off by it? Count me out.”  
“Hear, hear,” Khelgar said. He was eyeing the dead bodies of the wolves distastefully, his usual smile disappeared. “If we'd potions and patience aplenty then we might be equipped for what you want, but we're not.”

The elf looked between the two of them, and then turned her eyes back to Cylle, whose mouth felt dry as ash. Nor was it just the elf that stared – three pairs of eyes fixed upon her, willing her to make a decision, and quickly. The wolves were motionless, and the glade stank of death and other unsavoury things. “We...” They were expecting her to act as though she was a leader. _I'm not. I'm just a girl from the swamp._ They all three were following her, yes, but that did not mean that she had to make every decision... did it? “We... don't have time for this. I'm sorry,” she said to the elf, who regarded her coolly.

“A Harborman would be hard-pressed to understand,” came the response, before she had a chance to hear further how badly a job they would have made of the whole business, she with a bloody and useless arm, and they without any way of healing themselves other than with rudimentary patchwork. That in itself was infuriating. “You will be wanting to travel on to Highcliff, I suppose. It lies to the north and west, and is not far. We should move on at once if you do not wish to... linger.” It was clear she wanted to say something more, but she restrained herself, and Cylle's heart sank as she let the elf take point once more. _I wish we could help, but we're not heroes_. She did not miss the way Elanee walked slower, as though she was less certain of her steps, or simply groggy from the amount of blood she had lost already. There was no doubt in her mind that they would have fallen to whatever evil had befallen the glade, and she did not eagerly await her death on a cold earthen floor, especially not when she had a journey left ahead of her. It took a desperate kind of self-assurance to keep herself positive after that. _There is no wrong in turning down a person when the odds are against us,_ she tried first, and then _no problem can be solved by dead people,_ and finally _if they persist, we can come again later. Maybe on the way back to West Harbor._

*

Their getting to Highcliff took longer than they had expected. Despite her injury, Elanee remained their guide and kept them moving even when the rest of them pressed for a rest, to patch her up again. The pace she set meant that she was left often feeling dizzy and looked paler than she had done when they'd first met. For the first day after the glade, her arm seemed as though it would never stop bleeding. What had been left of their healing supplies had long since been used up, both water and the potion drizzled into the wound to stop it from festering. It seemed to have done a good a job as any – every time they unwrapped her arm they found no trace of infection, and Elanee's brow remained cool and unfevered. Little hopes still remained to them, and what time they'd spent moving felt as though they'd crossed a considerable distance. Better than anything, they'd gotten back onto the road, so they could _all_ see where they were headed. It meant that people would see them, and there was always the chance of being set upon at night, but they all agreed that it was a safer option than travelling blind through the woods.

Though their new journey meant that people would see them, it also meant that they were more likely to espy people willing to help them and their wounded elf. By the second midday, Elanee had heard wheels, and soon after a cart lead by an old horse had been pulled into view. The man riding the cart had stopped at their insistence, and said that he was plenty willing to help them if they had any coin. As luck would have it, they had none, but he took pity on them nonetheless and let them trade with him. Neeshka took charge of the transactions while Cylle watched with interest; even knowing little about bartering she could tell that they had been given the better end of the deal. For a glittering silver necklace, two bags of tanglefoot vines and a shiny stone that was probably worthless he gave them two potions stronger than the one they'd already used, more bandages, and a flask of wine. They couldn't thank him enough for his kindness, and he'd merely smiled, touched the brim of his hat to them and set off again with his new treasures.

When they returned to the rest of their company to patch the elf up again, Neeshka had produced another roll of bandages that they had _not_ been traded. “What?” she'd asked when they'd rounded on her. “He's not going to miss them, and we've a need. Do you want her to bleed out on the road?” It was enough to keep them silent, but not to keep guilt from coiling in Cylle's stomach, and she'd busied herself with cleaning the wound again. The potions they'd been given seemed to work so much better than anything they'd had before. The colour returned to Elanee's cheeks and the wrappings didn't immediately stain when they were tied in place. It was enough to restore peace enough to them, and worry gave way to exhaustion. None of them objected when the elf proposed to rest for the night, just a little way from the road. There was an overhang of rock that she'd seen, wide enough to shelter them all from rain if it fell, and both directions of the road could be easily watched. It hadn't taken long for them to set up comfortably, and soon enough she was fast asleep, bandages still mercifully white. Cylle took first watch, and found herself not alone in the darkness.

“Want some wine?”  
It was Neeshka, who sat herself down next to the aasimar without a fuss, pulling her knees as close to her chest as she could. The skin was in one hand with the top open, offered to the other girl. After a moment's hesitation, she took it.  
“Aren't you tired?”  
“I thought I was, but it turns out the floor's too lumpy. And some hot-winded ass back there snores too loudly.”  
That earned her a quiet giggle, and Cylle took a mouthful of the wine. It was sweet, almost fruity, nothing like the stuff she had had back at the Weeping Willow inn. “So instead of trying to rest you decided to come over and get me drunk? How am I meant to watch the road if I can't see straight?”  
“Oh, please.” the tiefling took the wine back and drank, more deeply than Cylle had. “You won't get drunk off of this. Not nearly strong enough. Besides, no one's making you take watch the whole night through.”

That wasn't something she could argue, and they settled easily into a comfortable silence, shoulders pressed against one another. Watching the dark world go about its business while the moon go down was idyllic, made even more so by the taste of summer in her mouth and the warmth of a friend at her side. Although summer itself was well over and they were further north every day, the air was still only cool. When the breeze picked up, it was enough to make her shiver pleasantly, the chill at odds with the warmth of her cheeks. Neeshka must have thought otherwise. The fourth time it happened, Cylle found a warm arm snaking its way about her waist. “I'm not cold,” she tried to protest, and was answered with a disbelieving look. They stayed like that for a long time, with Elanee's soft breaths and Khelgar's dreadful snores providing the night's music, and the darkness soon leached the last of the warmth from the air so that both women had an arm about the other, sharing in each other's body heat. Neeshka had plenty, and she'd smiled tiredly when asked about it.

“Infernal blood,” she explained. “If nothing else, it makes the winters bearable. I think it goes something like: the Hells are frozen solid, so we need something to keep us moving. It passes down through the blood, and, well.” she shrugged, and that was the end of her explanation. She seemed morose after giving it, and the silence seemed different, somehow – until Cylle, ever the good heart, squeezed the other girl closer gently, all the better to press a comforting kiss to her temple. _That_ earned her yet more silence, broken by the tiefling pressing her hands against her own mouth to stop her giggling. “Just how much have you had to drink? You really weren't kidding,” and she picked the flask up to slosh it about. It was only half-empty. “Tymora's good graces, Cylle, you should have said you couldn't drink worth a, a... I've never met a person who couldn't even finish a _single flask of wine_!” she was getting louder with every word, too amused to care about silence, and Cylle had to shush her, laughing herself. Behind them, Khelgar snorted and rolled over, and both girls stuffed their fingers in their mouths to muffle their mirth.

It was only when they were certain he wasn't going to stir further that they shoved each other, still grinning widely. Cylle fell onto her arm and started to giggle again. “No more wine for you,” Neeshka said, and tucked the flask away safely. She pulled the other girl up again, pressing a finger to her lips in a vain attempt to silence her, glancing back at the sleepers with devilry in her eyes. “Time for you to embarrass yourself.”  
“I don't embarrass myself,” Cylle said. “I'm not going to trip over... and I'm _not_ going to sing anything bawdy. I'm not drunk.”  
“You just kissed my head. You're drunk.” Her inebriation didn't seem to bother the other girl, who touched a finger to her temple, where the golden lips had pressed. “People don't just kiss tieflings. Shh,” she added. “Don't worry. I wasn't going to make you do either of those things... that's for another time. I'm just going to ask you questions.”  
“Questions?” the very word sounded suspect.  
“Innocent questions,” Neeshka said, a hand on her heart to prove that she was most certainly being trustworthy. A memory flitted into the aasimar's head, of quick fingers pilfering a spare roll of bandages. Her eyes narrowed. “I promise. Come on, just... little stupid things. You didn't ever do this with friends? Ask dumb things, give dumber answers?” Cylle could only shake her head. “Well, you missed out, so now I'm going to have to introduce you to the world of merry-making and all it comes with. Now, first question... have you ever been with a man?”

Cylle felt her cheeks start to burn. “ _What_? I- no! Of course not!” Her flustered response was apparently cause for her friend to start laughing again. “I'm not going to answer you if you ask me stuff like that!”  
“You can ask me stuff instead, if you'd like,” Neeshka said. The flask reappeared briefly for her to take a sip from it, and then disappeared again. “I have. It's not anything to get so worked up about.”  
“Isn't it?”  
“Curious?” the word was accompanied with a knowing smirk. “I could tell you, if you'd like-”  
“ _No_ , thank you!”

Apparently they were making too much noise. It hadn't seemed possible, but Khelgar grunted twice and pushed himself to sitting, told the girls off for talking so loudly, and then said that he'd take over watch if they gave him the wine. “I can smell it on both of you,” he said to their wide-eyed astonishment, and held his hand out until the skin was passed over. “Now _sleep_ , for the gods' sake,” they were told, and in what felt like no time at all they were back-to-back on the ground. Cylle was glad for the closeness of the other girl. It hadn't been cold earlier, but it was truly night now, and she could not seem to stop shivering. She closed her eyes and tried to put from mind the images of Neeshka in the arms of men who were faceless but undoubtedly handsome.

Morning broke, and with it came a chill that had not been present the day before. Her nose had run in the night, and she woke to snot crusted on her upper lip and a headache. When she complained, the tiefling laughed at her. “Someone your size shouldn't be a lightweight,” was her verdict, but she passed over what was left of the water regardless. Cylle wanted nothing more than to lay down some more, shut her eyes and try and sleep the rest of this self-inflicted illness away, but they had to keep moving. Highcliff wasn't far, and Elanee was insistent that they reach the village today. The elf's arm wasn't bleeding any more, but still looked a mess under the bandages. “The better this can be seen to for good, the better,” she'd said, and they had no choice but to press on. The wrappings stayed on and she stayed ahead of the rest of them, guiding them onward with her pace fully renewed. Soon enough they were stood upon a rocky crop that overlooked the sea, and all thoughts of sickness fled Cylle's mind when they looked on it. She had never seen the sea before, but had heard of it – knew it to be a vast thing, a great lake that twinkled blue on good days and roared grey on the bad. What sat in front of her defied all expectations. Nothing she had ever imagined had been so _big_ : it stretched on further than her eyes could see, and she had to turn her head to either side to get an idea of its vastness. Moreover, it stank of salt, something she had not been expecting. Fish sometimes appeared in the streams of the Mere, but it was common knowledge they came from the sea, and their stink was an obvious and pungent thing, but so different to the smell of their home. It was tinged with something else, too, something that she could not quite place, but she got only shrugs and half-hearted responses to her questioning.  
“Seaweed, maybe,” Khelgar said. “Or bad luck. I don't trust the sea.”  
That last seemed to be shared by all her companions, for various reasons that none enquired about. They descended carefully – the village proper sat atop the cliffs, but they had no need to go there when the docks were at the bottom. Elanee led them to a sloping hill, almost boggy from the spray of the sea, and soon they found themselves standing amidst lazy sailors staring up at their own great galleys. The ships were bigger than anything Cylle had ever seen before, too – bigger than any house ever built, she guessed, and she found herself gawking. It fell to Neeshka to take her elbow and guide them along the seafront. Down here the stink of the ocean was stronger, but the more she smelled it the less she minded it. It was fresh and bracing, at the very least. _I could learn to love it if I was given enough time_.

Her astonishment only doubled when one of the ships started to move. Ropes were thrown to and from the deck and the crew aboard scurried around like rats, their movements quick and full of purpose. One of them was climbing on the rigging, and had to suppress the urge to call out to them, to tell them to _be careful_!  
“Fools,” the nearest sailor muttered. One or two of the men nearby who'd heard him nodded. All eyes were trained on the ship as it began to leave. “They won't make it, no more'n any of the rest of us did.”  
That seemed a cryptic thing to say, so the group stopped to watch the galley leave the bay. It was slow going, but impressive nonetheless to watch the big thing creak and groan as it set off for its voyage. Oars were starting to poke out from holes beneath the deck to help ease it out, though the sails remained rolled up. It was one of the most impressive things she had ever seen. As all good things, it had to come to an end – one with great rocks falling from the sky. They came whistling out of nowhere to splinter into the wood of the ship, and the crew aboard it began to yell and scramble from end to end in an attempt to escape being hit by the missiles. Not everyone was so lucky. Cylle saw at least two bodies drop lifelessly into the waves, and soon enough the mast had been snapped in two, and the whole thing was well on its way to being sunk.

The sailor that had assured their misfortune sniffed heavily, and spat onto the floor. He wasn't the only one to do so. “Lizards,” he said. “They bin going out of their way to sink every boat coming out of the village, and no ships come in, either. You ain't sailors – wanting passage north, I take it?”  
“To Neverwinter, yes.”  
“You and the rest o' the village.” He was scowling now, even though the crew of the sunken ship were beginning to appear, pulling themselves from the waves with only a little difficulty. Others rushed to help them. “Good luck with that. No ships go in or out 'til the lizards are dealt with. Find an inn, put your feet up, all four o' you. Unless you want to press on by foot.”

There was nothing for it but to climb the cliff again. None of the sailors had any time for them, it seemed, too busy helping a soaked comrade dry off or standing around looking gruff and unhelpful. It was with reluctance that they turned to climb, both for the waste of time the journey was turning out to be and for the sheer danger the steps presented. They were cut into the cliff face itself and deep enough for anyone to use, but there was no rail to hold onto, and every hint of a breeze felt like it might the one to blow them off again. They were all pleased when they reached the top, but none more so than Cylle, who turned to face the sea again with yet more amazement. From up here it looked even more inviting, with the sun at their backs glinting off the top of every silvery wave. Nothing would have pleased her more than to have stayed standing there for the rest of days. How anyone could see such sights more than once and then claim boredom, she'd never know. _If I could see the sea every day, I'd never tire of it_. But her friends were eager to press on, to find a place to rest and get information, and she let herself be drawn away. Neeshka took up the place at her side once again to better hide herself from curious glances thrown their way.

Of those glances, there were few. People were going about their business as best they could, but for every queer look sent their way three others ignored them completely. It was a strange feeling. They'd not spent much time amongst others while travelling together, but even that short time had been filled with questions and stares and even a few choice insults here and there. Cylle turned her head so she might talk into Neeshka's ear without needing to raise her voice. “Do you think they see many... people? People like us, I mean.”  
“I wouldn't have thought so. Sure, ships come and go, and Neverwinter is pretty much just a great boiling pot of races, but the crewmen... the ones they'd see most often? Humans and elves, I'd have said. Dwarves at a stretch.”  
“I'd have said so, too, but they're so... distant.”

Not everyone was content to leave them be, of course. A small group of men in mail spat after them as they walked by, and no amount of coercion could stop Khelgar jumping at the chance to fight them. He didn't even bother to draw his weapon, simply dived in with fists blazing, and somehow the disadvantage worked just well for him. One of the men was knocked out cold, something he seemed especially proud of, and he was honestly confused when the three women drew him aside to yell at him. “But ye heard the things they were calling us?”  
“Of _course_ I did,” said Cylle, who had been called far worse things than smelly before. “No matter what they said, your idea of punishment wasn't necessary.”  
“But-”  
“No! We don't need that kind of attention, and you need to learn how to ignore that kind of thing!” She had to stop and breathe deeply once she was done. Taking charge of people was one thing, but accounting for their mistakes and chastising them thusly was another thing altogether, and more exhausting than she'd thought it would be. “Don't do it again,” she warned, and the dwarf looked abashed enough for her to feel a modicum of guilt. Whether it was sincere or he was merely waiting out the storm she didn't know, but he kept his head down when they passed the tavern, usually so inviting. Part of her wanted to send him away again to make up for her anger, though she knew it was a bad idea. She had to bite her lip to keep her mouth shut.

Hopeless and finding the most obvious of things at times, Cylle walked right by the village elder and only realised her mistake when the tiefling slipped an arm through her own and tugged sharply to get her attention. He was busy, talking to a woman in a ragged dress who looked and sounded hard-pressed. They waited for her problem to be resolved, which did not take long.  
“I wish there was more I could do,” the elder said to the world at large. “But the goodwife must learn that I have only limited power.” He sighed before he straightened his back and smoothed his beard down. It was an impressive thing, reaching halfway down his front, and white as snow. “My apologies. I presume you are here for some sort of audience? I hope talking here suits you. The suns warms me in a way the fireplace cannot.”  
They exchanged pleasantries and let the conversation amble about to no particular end for a while until they decided to get to the heart of the matter. “We need passage to Neverwinter by ship, as soon as possible. We heard that the lizards have been causing you trouble – is there no way to get them to stop?”

“Not that I know of.” the old man scritched his beard, frowning as he thought. “We have been preoccupied with much, lately. Unattended farms are burnt to the ground, bandits roam the overland pass north, and we must keep what harvest we can safe for the winter. Most of it is lizard-work, but there is no way for us to fight back. We are farmers, not warriors.”  
It was obvious that left to their own devices, they would not last for the rest of the year. The crops would end up stolen or turned to ash, their houses would fall, and they would all slowly die. It was not an enjoyable prospect, and it was clear that the elder knew as well as they did what the outcome was like to be.  
“What if we looked into things?”

Cylle had been expecting the concerned looks that were shot her way. “We desperately need to go north, and it needs to be by boat,” she explained. “If they're causing that much trouble, we can look around, try and get to the bottom of this, and you don't have to be responsible for us.”  
That much at least seemed to appeal to the old man. “I cannot guarantee your safety,” he cautioned, and the group as a whole shrugged. “Very... very well. If you are able to find out why the lizards are so intent on driving us away, we... the entire village would be in your debt. Here, allow me...”  
He left them, disappearing inside a structure slightly larger than the surrounding ones, and Khelgar tested the waters by whistling. “Nicely done, lass,” said he, and all of Cylle's resentment melted away. The elder returned with a roll of vellum, and he opened it to show them a map of the area. The road north was labelled clearly, as were several other small meandering paths to various farms. He jabbed a finger at one of them.

“A woman named Shandra lives here. She's one of the last farmers still left on the outskirts, too stubborn to give up her land to anything. Maybe you'll be able to wrangle better information from her than you could from me or any of the other townsfolk... We're contained enough here that the lizards do not try to harry us, but Shandra has suffered a great deal more than the rest. I wish you luck on your travels... go well, you four. Go swiftly.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW so 6 months have come and gone since this was last updated - I never meant to leave this fic for so long, but I lost interest in writing for a while and then ended up becoming the busiest of bees, and then all of a sudden in the middle of the busiest week of deadlines I got hit with inspiration and wanted to at least finish the chapter I started writing back in October. Whether or not I'll be able to keep writing for this and update it regularly or no - I'm a slow writer as is - is something I can't foresee, but definitely something I'd like to keep working on in the meantime.

It would have been easy to miss Shandra's house had they not been looking for it. It was tucked away behind her farm and looked for all the world like a second barn, the illusion helped by the few chickens pecking about the doorstep. They scattered as the group approached, shedding feathers as they went, and Cylle stepped up to rap neatly on the door. After a moment, she tried again. There was no answering voice from within, nor did the door swing open of its own accord to admit them.

“Do you think she's in?”  
“She has to be. The elder said she hadn't left.”

The dwarf elbowed her out of the way and began to hit the door so hard that Cylle had to pull him back by his neck. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of thievery, and she said as much, met with the usual shrugs and uncaring stares that she had come to expect with every telling-off. They began to call out the farmer's name instead, disturbing the chickens further, but there was still no answer.

 

Just as they huddled together to discuss what their next step should be – _search for the lizards without help?_ \- there was movement from the far side of the actual barn, and a voice called out to them.  
“Did you want to bring the entire coast down to see what the matter was, or were you just yelling for the hell of it?”  
As she approached, Cylle could see that the farmer was weary. Sweat had beaded on her forehead and strands of straw-coloured hair were sticking to it. Her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms dirty but well-muscled. This was a woman who worked the fields daily, and it showed.  
“Are you Shandra?”  
“Did Mayne send you?” the farmer asked in return. “The elder, I mean. You don't look, well, common enough to be wandering out here bothering smallfolk.”

“I'll say,” Khelgar began. “Out in the arse end of nowhere, and-”  
“- _and_ we're trying to help out the town. Your town,” Cylle cut in quickly, before the woman could decide that she didn't want to help them. Long days did not lead to patient people, she knew frome experience. “Highcliff, I mean. We came to see what the lizards are doing, try and get them to stop...”  
“He finally grew a pair? Thank the gods. It's been me alone out here since everyone else up and left, and I really don't know how long I'll be able to hold out for.”

“Why _are_ you here?” the tiefling asked. “If it's really as dangerous as everyone says, surely Highcliff is the best place for you to go?”  
“It's not by choice. I ought to move, really, but I can't leave the harvest here... what's more, I'm meant to be on the merchant run by now. The road is blocked, though. The sailors say it's the usual and worse, and I've no reason not to believe. Merchants going that way just disappear, wagons and all, and I'm sure not willing to take that chance... Which means I stay here.” she spread her arms, swept the movement into one much more graceful, and brushed hair from her face. A generous helping of dirt was deposited where she'd touched. “Since I can't sell what I've grown, I don't think I'll make it through the year. Me and the rest of the town – we're all going to starve, or worse. We're cut off from the rest of the world and winter'll be here soon. Everything's just one big mess.”

 

For a farmer, she was certainly brave to accept what seemed like an inevitable fate and keep on going. It wasn't uncommon for small villages here and there to be preyed upon by desperate bandits, and farmers up and down the Sword Coast had resigned themselves many a time to having their crops taken or burned. Less crops meant less money, which meant in turn that a permanent change in scenery was sometimes needed. Few ever took a stand. Some would die, and some braver than the rest would take up arms, but they all did so with a weary resignation that seemed to be universal to those without much money. It was plain that Shandra was unlike that. She was desperate for change, but not so deprived that she would cling to the skirts of others and weep while a solution failed to present itself.

“Have you been attacked?”  
“No... but it's only a matter of time.” The wind had blown her hair free, and she tucked it behind an ear again. “I guess I'm just last on the list. Thankfully no one's been killed, so I don't have that grizzly end to look forward to, but the houses aren't so lucky. Any buildings the lizards can torch, they do.”

“Huh.” Neeshka's thoughtful noise drew everyone's attention, which she seemed to shrink from, still not used to anything but accusatory glares. “It's odd, don't you think? I've heard they, uh, tend to eat people. There's no reason why they shouldn't do it now.”  
The elf nodded. “Yes. This entire situation is unusual. Perhaps they are afraid to push the villagers too far.”  
“What, you think they're worried Mayne might take up weapons and kick them out? It won't come to that,” Shandra assured them with a snort. Elanee shook her head patiently.  
“Spilling blood amongst and between lizard tribes is... well, not the same as we would see it. They are not so reckless as outlaws. Destroying objects and places of residence, however... the simplest explanation would be of control, and territories. It sounds as though they are ousting farmers to gain control of the land for themselves.”

 

They mulled that proclamation over in silence, each trying to work out why lizards would act so unlizard-like. With the sun high and a cool breeze tickling their faces, it was almost an enjoyable moment, until Shandra broke the quiet. “I don't mean to be rude, but if you're out to do something, shouldn't you be doing it?”

Of course, she was right, and the group recognised as much immediately. Here they had been complaining that the route north was closed and pressing them for time, and now they were standing around a field doing as though they had all the time in the world. They did not need to waste what time they had on things like _meaningful silences_. “That's right. We're sorry for taking up your time... if it isn't too much trouble, could you tell us where the castle ruins are? We're headed in that direction, and this map...”

Cylle held the vellum out, half unrolled, pointing out what she assumed to be the farm and the village in turn. She had never needed to rely on maps before, not when Daeghun had always pointed her in the right direction, but now they needed it. The area was full of twists and turns, of paths that led nowhere, and even Elanee could not guide them, not knowing the area. As Shandra bent her head to look, shut her eyes to think, something caught the aasimar's eye. Something – no, several somethings – skittered through the fields. They were tall, strong-looking, had tails as long as the farmer was tall, and all carried torches.

“Uh,” Cylle said as she lifted her head to watch them race out of the ploughed lands toward the barn and house. “You, uh, might want to look – behind you...” Shandra did no such thing, drawing a line with her finger for watchful elf-eyes to memorize. “Really... lizards... at your house...”

 

 _That_ got her attention. She whirled around so quickly that her hair flew in front of her eyes, and in the moment she spent pushing it away, flames had already begun to lick up the side of the barnhouse. She was silent and open-mouthed, but a quick glance at her hands saw the elder's map being scrunched up. “No,” she said, so softly that it could have been mistaken for a breeze. Then again, louder, “ _No_... My barn... the harvest... I let my guard down just for a second...”

Behind her, the party of four exchanged a single look, one laced with guilt and worry, each asking the other _what do we do_? Cylle bit her lip hard in an attempt to quench the feeling of helplessness, of being useless, even though she knew there was no way she could have run the length of the field quick enough to stop them. Miserably, she took in breath to apologise. She didn't get the chance. Shandra whirled back again, eyes ablaze with something stronger than anger, and thrust the crumpled map at her.

“You said you're going to help?” the words sounded almost as an accusation. Cylle nodded. “Then _do it_. I'm sick to death of Neverwinter, of Fort Locke... the milita, the elder, everyone saying they'll help us out and nothing ever _happening_. Just once – just this once... If you can do something, if you think you can, for me, for the other farmers here, it'd be long past due.”

 

The flames had already climbed the beams of the barn behind her, the breeze breathing life into them and coaxing them ever higher. It would only be a matter of time until it spread further, leaping from beams to nearby branches. Cylle found herself fixed with those hard eyes before the farmer turned, leaving them behind to run to her front door.

“Should... should we help her put the fire out..?”

A glance at her companions saw her own worry etched onto their faces, and she made up her mind then and there to _help_ rather than _leave_ . She started forward, intending to find a bucket, find Shandra, find water, anything, and the woman pulled two buckets from the inside of her house. “Shandra, let me-”  
“ _Go_ ,” the farmer snarled back, and disappeared around the back of her house, presumably to find water. That had them moving.

*

Elanee had been given possession of the map and had guided them with little incident toward the ruins of Highcliff Castle. The sun had sunk deep beneath the horizon by the time the first great stones loomed up out of the darkness, and despite the few bright stars in the sky, the rest of the group had all agreed that they would never have made it this far. That had had the elf smiling in a satisfied sort of manner, and they had made the journey in mostly silence. As they got closer, the ground became easier to walk on, and the slope leading up to what had once been its entrance was easygoing. It seemed a waste to the Harbourman, who could not imagine cart after cart of merchants and their wares trying to woo some king or another into their favour. The crumbling gate awaited them without fanfare. No doors barred their entry; the curtain was only half-standing, with great stones laying about or toppled to the bottom of the gentle hills.

The first sign of trouble was the two torches burning in the gatehouse's sconces and the bones that had fallen below them. Off to one side was the sound of battle that came to a close as they approached, weapons at the ready. A lizard rained heavy blows on one undead until it crumpled, and sliced wildly at the other. One slash had it falling to the floor as well, and then two sure stomps saw their heads smashed for good. The survivor turned, took in their weapons, and dropped its own.

 

“Wait! Stay back! Slaan not fight you! Slaan get help!”

The party shared a curious look. Cylle, who had shared a border with lizards all her life, had never known one to willingly put up its arms before a group of humans, and certainly not ones who were armed. The lizard took a step to the side, away from its shortswords, and torchlight washed over it.  
“... We're not going to fight you,” Cylle said, and lowered her sword. To her side, Neeshka made a startled noise, and shrugged when given a pointed look. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, help?”  
The lizard shuffled its feet. “Slaan ask chief for more warriors. Dead ones kill many clansmen already. More warriors below, trapped by dead ones.” It brought its arms up, gesturing widely. Cylle, the only one not ready for battle, jumped. “Clan here to sink human boats. Slaan escape dead ones, ask chief for more warriors to fight.”

“ _You're_ responsible for the troubles in Highcliff?” Elanee asked.  
“Yes,” the lizard said simply. The sibilant answer was disquieting. “Humans invade our lands, hunt us. Humans need stopped.”

 

Neeshka leant close to the aasimar, breath hot on her ear as she whispered. “You could probably threaten this chief's location out of him, you know. Then-”  
“Then what?” Cylle hissed back. “Fight our way through a whole lizard tribe? Count me out.” she stood a little straighter, turned her attention back to the lizard and mulled the situation over quickly. “If I help you save your clan warriors, will you take me to your chief?”  
Slaan hissed, eyes darting toward its dropped weapons. “How can Slaan trust you? You attack chief, kill clan.”

“No, no-” Khelgar made a noise behind her. She ignored him. “I just want to talk. We want to help Highcliff, you want to help your clan. We could come to an agreement.”  
“Hope you know what you're doing, lass,” the dwarf muttered. The lizard regarded her carefully, with yellow eyes that did not seem to need to blink. She forced herself to adopt what she hoped was the most honest of expressions. After a moment, it nodded.

“Slaan believe you. Help clan, Slaan take you see chief.”  
It loped forward to pick its weapons up again, apparently satisfied that now it was clear to do so no matter how weak their accord. Cylle looked down to see an angry dwarf looking up. “Fighting side by side with a lizard? Did ye learn nothing in the swamp?”

 

“Don't let his suspicious nature bother you, Cylle,” Neeshka put in. “ _I_ trust you.” she flashed a brilliant smile, the brightest thing by far in this gloomy place, outshining even the torches. Cylle looked away to catch her breath.

“Let's just go. The faster we do this, the faster we get to try and leave. Slaan... is it? You know the way to your warriors?” The lizard hissed what might well have been an affirmative. “Then you're going to lead the way. We'll be behind you. Khelgar, I want you in the back. Elanee and Neeshka, you two walk with me.”

 

She ignored the dwarf's grumbled protests. _So long as you're back there you can't get us all killed_. She hated thinking such things, for she trusted him with her life and knew she would continue to do so, were he to stay with her. But there was something in him that had him jump toward violence as the first and only answer to all questions, and she couldn't agree with his methods. She had tried to see things from his point of view, but she suspected she was not drunk – or dwarven – enough to understand. Diplomacy could only take a person so far, that much she knew, but it was always better to try than to be distrustful.

 

The lizard did not seem to mind being placed ahead of them: perhaps it was simple. Any other creature might have asked one of them to walk alongside it rather than behind, considering the way they were armed, and their clear lack of scales. But there was no mistrust, no grumbling of any sort; it simply led them into the gloom. It was already several paces ahead by the time they followed, having taken a moment to take the torches from the gatehouse. Elanee and Neeshka both carried one, their strengths lying elsewhere than combat. The aasimar wondered if the druidess would be able to call on the earth's powers underground, surrounded by stone. She hoped she could. Of all her experiences under the earth, away from the sunlight – of which there were few – she knew only fear and exhaustion. There was little and less to be gained from going into such places. Briefly, she wondered by no commonfolk had bothered to take up arms, and then found she could not blame them for staying well away. If it were up to her, she would not be here either.

 

Even with the torches, the darkness was still suffocating. Slaan at least seemed to know in which direction his clan lay, and they followed him through endless doors and corridors until eventually Cylle was forced to admit to herself that she would not be able to find her way out alone. It was a terrible thought. _To die without even being able to see the stars, with all this stone above..._ it made her shiver, and she squeezed her eyes shut as though to try and ward off the idea. There was a gentle touch at her wrist.

“Are you alright?”

It was Neeshka, head close and voice quiet so as to afford them the pretence of privacy. Cylle offered her a weak smile. “Mm. I don't like not knowing the way. And it's too _dark_...” The fingers slipped down and around, so her hand was being held instead of her wrist. Neither of them were wearing gloves, and the tiefling girl's hand was hot, the touch comforting. There came the gentlest of squeezes, and Cylle's smile grew just a little stronger. “I'll be fine,” she affirmed, but the hand did not pull away. Neeshka's other arm held the torch high, Elanee behind them held a flickering light that did little to stave off the gloom, and though there was nothing but stone all around them and a lizard leading them into the most uncertain of situations, for a moment everything seemed right. This, after all, was the stuff of adventures. Countless people before her and endless ones after would tread these ruins, or others, with a group of friends and a weapon at their hip. This was part of the excitement, part of the quest that would lead them to treasure, fame, glory... to lifelong friendship and the chance to return home, if they were lucky. Her thoughts strayed to her mother, of the life she must have had, and she wondered if Daeghun was thinking of her.

 

The ruins were quiet, but not empty. Rats skittered by their feet, unafraid of their two-legged company and the light they carried, and from somewhere deep within the ruins came the the unmistakable sound of groaning echoing through the halls. “Dead people,” Slaan had said the first time they'd heard the moans, and though it seemed to get louder with every turn, only a few undead had tried to ambush them. They had learned quickly that there were two kinds of dead people: the slow movers, reanimated bodies that seemed to rot as they walked, and the rattlers. Where the zombies seemed to be afraid of the fire that was waved at them, the walking bones had no fear. What was worse, they were _quick_. Their empty eyesockets offered them no handicap, and once they had seen or sensed their prey they did not let up. It took being thrown to the floor and having the bones reduced to dust by a good stamping before they finally stopped. Those not carrying torches had their work cut out for them, trying to fight in such a confined space against so many undead – thankfully not all at the same time, but they just kept coming. More than once they had had to pause their search to keep a position held in some corridor or another until all that was left was them and their fallen foemen.

 

Several times, Cylle wondered how the lizard was able to navigate through the dark so well. It ignored plenty of shut and barred doors and only hesitated to listen for enemies before taking them further into the ruin. Whatever sense it followed to return to its clan was definitely keen, but it did not seem to know the meaning of stealth. When it talked, his voice was loud and carried through the halls. It took Neeshka – one hand always finding its way back to Cylle's, warm and comforting despite the aasimar's quiet protests – telling him that he'd soon be short a tongue for him to be quiet, and even that did not silence him for good.

 

“Clan close now,” he announced, and hissed when Cylle told him to be quiet. She withdrew her hand from Neeshka's, told the girl to keep the torch where it was, or further back if she could help it, and inched forward. She could have sworn at hearing something: not the hopeless gurgles of the undead, not bones clattering, not anything they'd become accustomed to hearing. One step, and then two, and her hands on the wall felt the stone dip away under her touch. She followed it carefully, slowly, glad that the light behind her was retreating a little. She rounded the corner, and almost gasped. There was light – not on the walls, but flooding out from a room she could not yet see. Lights meant people, and people meant that she hadn't been hearing things. Keeping close to the wall and her movements as slow as possible to keep her mail from rattling, she kept going forward, the better to listen. Conversations held underground never meant kindly things in the storybooks.

 

“... doesn't affect our plans at the fort, nor the raising of the troops. The power runs strong here, and the old war fuels our magic. They will not prevail.” That was a man's voice, muffled as though something was obstructing his mouth. A mask or a veil, perhaps. A different voice answered him, though just as male.

“So long as Neverwinter is occupied, you will have served me, and your master.”

“We are _all_ in the service of the King,” the first man said. Something about his tone was final, absolute. It made Cylle want to nod. _There is one in charge, and everyone else is below, no matter their status._ “There are no ranks or hierarchies before him, Lord Garius.”  
“Think what you will,” the second voice – Garius – scoffed. “Just carry out my orders.”

 

It wasn't much, but it was enough for Cylle to make up her mind that there was no reason to interrupt. Right now she was alone, no match for two men – two! who had made it this far by themselves. There was no way of determining what their intentions were, and she doubted highly that bursting into the room and demanding to know would yield favourable answers. It was much more likely that a quarrel in her throat would be her only answer. No, it would be better to return to her own party, and try to seek an alternate route to the lizards.

“But wait,” the voice that belonged to Garius said. She stopped suddenly, one guiding hand on the wall, heart pounding madly. “It sounds as though someone else has come to join us – to pay their respects to the King, perhaps. Maybe the same ones that slaughtered our priest at Fort Locke. See to them, would you?”

That was her cue to abandon any pretence of stealth and pull herself around the corner again as fast as she was able. Despite the troubles they'd had, her friends' weapons were all sheathed, and they were – once again – standing motionless, as though they had all the time in the world. She gestured wildly at them.

 

“What's-” the tiefling started to say, and then Cylle was drawing her sword, a rasp of steel and swinging it heavily to her right. She'd heard the bones before she saw the skeleton, and her blow knocked it backwards several paces. That had her companions pulling steel out and rushing to her side for another battle penned awkwardly into a corner. The skeleton soon found its skull crushed beneath the lizard's foot, and the zombie that slowly shuffled to its aid had only a little time to try and protect itself before it too was felled. Seeing her companions start to sheathe their weapons, she shook her head and gestured back the way she'd come from with her sword.

 

“There's another priest. Come on, quickly, _quickly_.”

They charged as one being with five separate bodies, into the room of torchlight. Falling back even momentarily had afforded him the advantage; a burst of blinding light was waiting for them, rendering them stumbling and unsure. Cylle found the wall with one hand and kept still until her vision returned, fear thrumming through her entire body as she stayed still. She was not the first to recover. Elanee had leapt forward with her sickle in one hand, the torch still aloft in the other, and there was an awful noise as the curved blade scraped against the decorative armour on the priest's chest. Then she was being batted away, and Khelgar took her place, swinging sure and heavily. It was a simple thing to box him in after that. Elanee and Neeshka kept him in place with their torches, and death found the man at the end of Khelgar's axe. As he crumpled, Cylle looked around for the owner of the second voice. They were alone.

“There was someone else here,” she said, certainty waning with each passing second. “That one was talking to him. _Garius_ , his name was. They were talking about... a king. And Fort Locke. I don't remember,” she said, horrified at her own memory. It had been barely five minutes, and the discussion had already fled her mind.

“They're gone,” Elanee tried. “If they spoke anything of importance, you would have remembered. We are unharmed, free to press on-”

“Hey, there's a book.”

 

Neeshka had already opened it and riffled through the pages. Now she held it up for the others to see. It seemed like a thick journal, the pages crinkled and yellow, its cover red leather. From a distance, all Cylle could see were meaningless scribbles. “It sounds like they were trying to raise an army, or something like that. Here, take a look.” She passed it to Elanee, who looked through the pages politely and then passed it to Khelgar. The dwarf handed it straight to Cylle, who tried her best to make sense of the shorthand that it seemed to be written in, but only a few phrases stuck out. It spoke of a King, _blessed be his name_ , but there was little and less that could help them.

“Leave it,” she decided. “We won't make use of it, and we have to keep moving. The sooner we're out of here,” a yawn punctuated her words, “The better. I'd rather sleep outside than underground.”

Her companions muttered agreement, and Slaan led them out of the room again. They pressed on, guided further and further into the labyrinth until they came at last to a door that he stopped before. He hammered on it three times and called his name, and then came the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door swung open to admit them.

 

Inside were several more lizards, about the same size as Slaan, and just as poorly equipped. As warriors went, they ought to have had more protecting them than just a sword each and no armour, but their size along was enough to deem them terrifying. They did not seem best pleased to see a group of non-lizards following their comrade – or the light they were carrying. Aggrieved hisses filled the room and demands were made for the torches tobe extinguished. There was no choice but to do as they said, and one after another the torches were put out. The following darkness was stifling. Though the torchlight had been flickering at best, better for making headaches than a clear path, it had at least let them see a few steps ahead at a time, and now they had nothing but their ears to rely on. Cylle prayed with all her might that they would make it out of this encounter alive.

“You brought _warmbloods_ ,” one of the lizards hissed. This new room was small enough that the words did not echo, but after a sudden plunge into darkness, it was still impossible to tell where they came from. An answering sussuration arose.

“These different. Fight well, have honour. Slaan bring them to see chief.”

Their guide's words didn't ease the tension in the slightest. “To _chief_? Slaan stupid. Slaan tricked. Warmbloods will kill Slaan, kill chief, kill us all.”

 

The aggrieved noises grew louder and louder, doing nothing to calm Cylle's nerves. She took a step back, wondered if the creatures could see in the dark, and straightened instead. “No,” she said, and that stopped all noise. “I just want to talk to your chief. I swear it. Just words.”

Silence reigned supreme for a moment. “Words,” a lizard said. She had no idea whether it was Slaan or another one. They all sounded alike. “You believe?”  
“Yes. Slaan honours bargain. Bring them to chief. They talk.”

“We go warn clan. Tell chief. Be ready if warmbloods fight.”

 

That was the end of the display of lizard-folk diplomacy, and the discussion. Sudden movement suggested many big bodies approaching, and Cylle shuffled backwards until she felt the wall press against her. The door was creaked open, and Slaan's clan prowled out and away. The whole exchange had lasted no longer than a couple of minutes, at most.  
“Shouldn't we be going with them?” Cylle asked, feeling just a little dazed. She was squinting now, to no avail, trying to see whether they had all gone or not. _Gods, I wish there was some light_.

“Warriors go back, warn clan now,” Slaan explained. “Follow soon. Warmbloods rest, go up soon.”

No matter how they tried to cajole him into thinking otherwise, it became apparent that he would not guide them out again. Elanee had suggested that they return to the room where they had left the priest's journal, for at least there there was light, but the lizard had only shuffled its feet, and the suggestion had remained just a suggestion. Secretly, Cylle was glad they were not returning to it, even if it meant they had to spend time in a room they could only navigate by touch. There would have been light aplenty, but the body of the priest would still be there, and she did not want to dally with dead bodies overlong. Still, the lack of light had them all grumbling, wanting to move but unable to do so for fear of tripping. Cylle followed the wall with her back until Khelgar's grumbling sounded as though it might be more distant, and sank to the floor. She drew her knees up and twined her fingers together as she tried unsuccessfully to put all things light from her mind, flames and torches and bonfires and sun alike. _I just want to be able to see_. The dwarf sounded as though he was about to start threatening the lizard. She put him from mind, shut her eyes against the darkness, and _wished_.

 

Her arm tingled, the sensation concentrated in her fingertips. She'd clenched her eyes so tightly shut that brightness had exploded behind her lids, and she opened them again to shake out the feeling, but the light did not fade. The room's chattering had ceased, and she could see the faces of her companions staring at her, slack-jawed and played upon by heavy shadow. Just above her clasped hand was a small ball of the purest white light.

“How did you do _that_?” Neeshka asked. Cylle had no answer, could only stare at the light until her eyes began to water, and a laugh began to bubble up inside her. _Was that you, my goddess? Granting light and joy along with it?_ Lliira made no answer and the ball did not fade. _The best of gifts._

 

“Have light now,” the lizard said. It had pressed itself against the far wall, as away from the ball as it could get. It was the only one not looking at the light. “Slaan leads you soon.” That was the end of the argument that Khelgar had been attempting to start: Slaan sat by at the door, which had had a bolt set across it in the darkness, and set its sword just out of reach. The group shared weary glances and decided that there would be no harm in resting for a while. Cylle volunteered for first watch, still not fully trusting their guide and wanting to play with her new found ability. As the others sat and lay down, she experimented with movement first. The ball moved with her hand, and when she thought _stay_ it remained motionless, high in the air where she'd left it. Next she thought _brighter_ and the ball's energy became just that much stronger; the more she thought it, the brighter it became, until she decided that any more would wake her companions, and she dimmed it once more to not disturb the sleepers.

 

She had not yet tired of the novelty when Neeshka approached, sliding to mimic her own sitting position. They were as far back as they could be, facing the door, able to see every one and everything. Khelgar had occupied one wall, Elanee the right, and the lizard still had its head turned from the light.

“Nice trick,” she murmured by way of greeting, wriggling to get comfortable and relaxing with her shoulders and elbows brushing Cylle's. The aasimar _hmm_ 'd in response, still awestruck. She had decided that it had indeed been Lliira that had granted her the gift; it could have come from nowhere else. If she had possessed any sort of arcane aptitude as a child, Tarmas would have taken her on as an apprentice. No, this was better than the alternatives – somewhere up there sat an exarch smiling down upon her, and the thought was enough to make her stomach swoop and knot itself over and over.

 

“I never thought... _magic_ ,” she breathed, reverent. “There was a brother back home who cast spells, and a wizard... I thought I was the farthest thing from them.”  
“Surprises everywhere.”  
They stayed quiet, motionless against each other, until it occurred to Cylle that the other girl might have had reason for approaching. “Is everything okay? You can't sleep?”

“Didn't want to leave you awake by yourself,” came the answer. There was a smile waiting when she turned her head, a very small and almost nervous one. “I'm not tired, and I thought company would be better than none. Is that...”  
“It's fine,” Cylle said, and felt foolish for speaking so quickly. “I'm glad for it. You're... I'm glad for it.”  
Neeshka nodded, still smiling in that nervous manner, and they both returned their gazes upon the miracle of light once more. Snoring erupted from one wall as they did, and it was not long before Cylle found herself shuffling even closer. “It's cold,” she reasoned. “I guess this is just light, it's not true flame...”

 

A torch would likely have been a better companion, providing heat and security and something heavy to rest reassuringly in one's hand while they were trapped under the earth, but a torch would likely not have provided such joy. The tiefling wriggled at her side, and for a moment Cylle thought she was going to pull away, and felt oddly saddened – and then hot fingers touched her cheek. She turned her head, startled. Neeshka's face was closer than she'd thought it had been, and then it was pushed forward further, and then they were kissing. Her stomach twisted again, and all thoughts of the Lady of Joy were pushed right out of her mind. Not once she did think about pulling back, or pushing the other girl away. When it was broken, Neeshka kept her hands cupped about Cylle's cheeks. They were still warm. Cylle's skin tingled where the flesh touched.

“Was that...” she started, then stopped to run her tongue over her lips and swallow. She was whispering. Cylle grabbed her wrists, pressed forward, kissed her again. She was pleased to note from the corner of her eye that the light did not waver.

*

Sleep had taken her unawares. Cylle was shaken awake, and at first she wondered _why_ – the room was dark as the blackest of nights, she was as comfortable as she could be, having at some point slid down to lie on the floor – and then she remembered what was in the darkness with her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand, she recalled the wondrous ball of light from before, and hoped it would be easy to call back into existence. She had to focus, never her forté after waking, but it popped back into being and brought a wild joy to her heart again. It was the best gift a goddess could give, and the joy gave way to a squirmier feeling as she remembered what the light had led to. She put that memory from mind for careful dissection later, said her private thanks to Lliira, and turned her attention to he companions.

“Are we going?” she asked, and was answered by a mixed chorus of nods, grunts and wearied shuffling. The lizard was still with them, hunkered down by the door and uninterested in the arty until Cylle gathered herself and stood, ready to move once more.

 

“Slaan take you to chief now,” it hissed. “Gather things, move now.”

“Just take us to him,” Khelgar muttered, and was met with a glare from every person in the room. He shrugged them off – his skin was naturally impervious to nasty looks – and then they were moving again, discovering that the cold of the stone had seeped into their resting bodies and given them yet more aches to contend with. They each had a weapon out; now the torches had been extinguished and left behind with no new way to light them, even Elanee and Neeshka were ready to fight. Rattling and shuffling still reached their rears as they followed the lizard back to the surface, but they came across only one straggling undead as they moved. It was a joy to take care of it without trouble and not have to immediately fend off five more. The creature was put to rest by courtesy of Cylle's blade, which she noticed was beginning to show signs of wear. It did not cut half as well as it had only a sennight before, and she knew that once she spent time wiping it down she would be able to feel all manner of nicks and aberrations along its edge. Making a mental note to buy another or at the very least a whetstone at the first possible opportunity, she hoped that it would not break before they made it out of the ruin.

 

When they finally reached the surface, the land was still, quiet, blessedly fresh-aired and even better: the sun was rising. It was one sweet surprise after another, and the worries that had weighted her down in the ruins felt much lighter. Even the promise of being led underground once more to engage with a lizard-clan's chief could not damper her spirits.

“How far is it?” she asked.

“Not long,” Slaan answered, giving no better answer. Cylle kept her eyes on the sun as they moved, deciding that it was too early for any village folk to be up and working, and enough time had passed by the time they came across the yawning mouth of a cavern that its warmth was easing the aches from their bones. Reluctance filled her once again. _What are we doing? We might not return, I might say something stupid. We only just got out of the earth, and now we're going back into it._ She had done many a foolish thing in her time, but only rarely did she stride headfirst into situations that could go so wrong as this. _Am I doing the right thing_?

“Get moving, lass,” Khelgar said from somewhere below, and prodded her thigh to get her moving again. “I want this over and done with as soon as possible.”

 

The lair itself was much more homely than Cylle would have thought. At first it was unwelcoming, the bones of rodents and littering the entrance to serve as a deterrent to any would-be hero, but the further they were led, the better conditions became. There were no bones back here – at least, not out where they could be trodden on, and signs of life became ever more obvious. They passed a pitfire, blackened sticks propped up over it that obviously served as a spit when in use, and several narrow tunnels that led elsewhere. Slaan led them away from these and down a much wider tunnel that wound down and around until it opened up into a huge room – the chieftian's. Even without the presence of the much larger lizard, that much would have been obvious. Rock at the back of the room had been crudely carved into a poor imitation of a throne, and strips of ragged material had been strung up behind it. Stacks of rocks were lined against the walls, blacker than any other she'd seen so far, and the further they were led from the rocks the cooler the room seemed to feel. Slaan stopped a pace ahead of them, and they followed suit.

 

The chief was a good deal larger and taller than Slaan, its arms stronger-looking and its teeth much fiercer. This lizard had donned piecemeal armour to further demonstrate its status.  
“You brought warmbloods to our lair,” it hissed. Nothing about those words were friendly. “Why?”  
“They saved Slaan's warriors, fought with Slaan against the dead that walk.” Beside her, Neeshka was furiously nodding her approval of those words. “They ask only to talk to chief. Slaan honours bargain.”

 

There was a grumbling that seemed to swell and fill the entire room. A quick glance around showed lizards crouched by the warm wall-rocks, or observing through another tunnel to the chief's room, all angry at Slaan's decision. They were silenced by the chief's much louder hiss. It stalked forward, pushed Slaan out of the way with little effort, and towered over the terrified party. Some inane part of Cylle's mind, brought to the fore by fear alone, wondered how a single lizard could grow so large.

“Bargain cannot be ignored. Talk, warmbloods. What do you want?”  
“For you to stop attacking the Highcliff ships. Please.”  
This close, Cylle could see that its eyelids closed vertically. “No. Here is our new home, and warmbloods hunt our kind if they live on our lands.”  
Disappointment curled in her gut, and she found herself at a loss for words. It was Neeshka that spoke next. “What are you talking about? Highcliff was here long before you were.”

“Our home _now_ ,” the chief said, and ran a forked tongue over its lips. “Lizardfolk need to be close to water. Warmbloods can move. They cause trouble, will always cause trouble. We make them leave, there will be no more trouble.”  
“So if the village stays away,” Cylle said, her mouth dry, “You'll stop the attacks?”  
“Cannot trust humans, clan not big enough for attack. We attack boats, maybe humans go away.”  
“I'll tell them to leave you alone, then!”

 

It ought to have been as simple as that – a promise, faithfully given, and the knowledge that if she reasoned with the elder enough, she should be able to get her way. The lizard looked at her carefully.

“No,” it said after a while. “Chief not believe you. You look like humans, lie like humans. Cannot trust.”

“Then they'll find you. You can't keep attacking them and not expect to have something done in return,” Cylle said, and felt a familiar sadness. That much was true of every person, then: there had only been humans and the odd elf to mingle with in the swamp, but every one of them would repay any injustice done to them, often more severely than it had been dealt them. It did not always stop future pranks being done on them, and the fights would grow ever worse. Even the kindest had a breaking point, as she knew well. She, Bevil and Amie could only have taken so much punishment for things they did not do before they rose up to fight the Mossfields away from any tourney ground. Bevil had reached his point many times and come home with a bloodied nose to show for it.

“Then we defend our home. Warmbloods suffer.”

“And you might all die. You said that there aren't enough of you to attack them – so there will not be enough of you to fight to protect yourselves,” she reasoned. None of this made sense. Violence needed to be used sometimes to protect oneself, or to hunt for food, but those were reasonable uses of force, and necessary to live. This was different. “You're willing to risk the life of your entire tribe for this? It could easily be avoided.”

 

There was silence, and some shuffling of reptilian feet. Cylle and the chief did not break eye contact, she willing him through silence alone to understand her words and realise that his path meant folly and likely destruction for them all. _It's not worth it.  
_ “You speak like shaman,” it said eventually. “Chief stop attacks if humans not hurt lizard-clan. If humans break promise...”  
“That won't happen,” she said quickly. “I'll make them promise, and they'll keep to it. I swear it.”  
 _I keep swearing things. Sooner or later I'll have agreed to the impossible, and my soul will be forfeit, likely._ “I'll tell the chief – the human chief, their elder, I'll make him promise.”  
“Chief trusting you,” the lizard said. It turned from them, walked back up the branch-path to its throne and sat, still taller by half a head than the aasimar. “Go now.”

 

They were escorted away by yet another lizard, though they could not be sure whether it was Slaan or not. It left them at the entrance to the cave before returning below, blinking in the sunshine and at the absurdity of the day's occurrences. Clouds had covered part of the sky, but it was still warm enough to be inviting, and they were all thankful to be back in the open, where they belonged. Elanee took the lead once more, turning them around some and walking them back toward the village they'd originally come from, this time not needing the map to set them straight.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Khelgar rumbled as they walked. “Some of the things you do... outright crazy. I reckon we should'a stormed the place, settled the matter like _warriors_. With steel!” he brought a fist his free, waiting palm. Cylle rolled her eyes.  
“That wouldn't have settled anything. They had their reasons – and it's not like they were stupid, just attacking because they could. You met Slaan too. They could speak, they could think.”  
“A lizard is a lizard is a lizard,” he grumbled.  
“Look, if she could convince them to listen, then the elder shouldn't be a problem,” Neeshka added, exasperated as always. Her eyes met Cylle's, and they both quickly looked away.  
“Even so,” she said, not wanting to carry on with this discussion, wanting instead to drag the tiefling away and demand an explanation for the sudden change between them. “We came halfway. That's more than either side did before. Let's just get back, tell them what happened, get on a _boat._ I feel like we've wasted so much time already...”

*

The sun was sinking low enough that men were giving up their work in the fields and starting to migrate to the tavern by the time they made it back to Highcliff. The smell of the sea welcomed them back, though they were not given time enough to enjoy it. Neeshka snagged a child and made him guide them to the elder, who had retreated inside to work. A copper was slipped the child's way before they entered, and from there it was a simple matter to explain the shaky peace she had constructed between the lizard tribe and the humans. The elder listened without interrupting, as did her companions, leaving her to stand straight and true and feel once again like a leader that had no right to the mantle. He nodded once the story was told, and got to his feet, all creaking knees and elderly effort that had Cylle attempting to reach across the table to help him. He shook off her kindness with a smile, thanked them for their efforts, and told them that the next boat would be available for their passage as soon as possible.

“Any idea when that might be?” Elanee asked.  
The elder could only shake his head. “Tomorrow, most likely. Tonight, if the sailors rush and the weather holds. I will do all I can to speed up the process.”

 

With that, he chivvied them out, locked the door behind him, and pottered off toward the slope to pass the good news on. The four travellers stood together, suddenly at a loss as what to do. Khelgar cleared his throat, rocked up onto his toes. Cylle answered his question before he could ask it.  
“Go to the tavern already. Just don't drink so much that you end up asleep. If we get to leave today and you're snoring when we find out, I'll leave you here.”  
“Never fear,” he winked back at her. “I guess you'll be wantin' minimal fights, aye?”  
“Aye,” she said, straight-faced. This earned laughs from the dwarf and from Neeshka, and the shorter one wandered away with a new spring in his step.  
“You don't think he'll actually-?”  
“Of course not,” Cylle sighed, rubbing her temples. “But if that ends up being the case then we at least get to throw water on him. The coldest we can find.”

 

While Neeshka crowed at the possibility, Elanee fixed her graceful stare upon the aasimar. “If I might be permitted a while alone,” she began. Cylle nodded, neither needing nor wanting to hear the rest of the plea.  
“Don't wander off too far, and be back by sundown proper just – just to check in, if nothing else.”  
The elf did not grace her with an answer; merely nodded, her big eyes almost owlish in their unblinking fashion, and then it was just the aasimar and the tiefling standing together.  
“So,” Neeshka said. Cylle wondered if the other girl's mouth felt as dry as hers. “Khelgar's drinking, Elanee's doing... whatever she's doing, I don't know, I don't care. Just us, huh?”  
“Just us.”

 

There was no prompt as to what _they_ should do. Cylle thought of a moment in the dark, an exciting press of one mouth to another and the fevered hope that no one woke up to see them, and swallowed heavily. Her cheeks felt warm. “Want to, uh, go somewhere, and...” she coughed. “And talk? Talking's a good idea. I think. Isn't it?”  
Neeshka shrugged, started an easy pace away from the middle of the street. “A good idea as any, I guess. Better than some, worse than others. You had something in mind?”

Cylle snorted, felt her cheeks grow warmer. That answer was enough to prompt the other girl into laughing, a loud sound that felt as though it should be more abrasive. The tummy-flutters she'd had upon first meeting the tiefling were still there, though now she wondered if it existed because of their ancestry, or their actions.

 

It wasn't long before they came across a quiet patch made shady by overhanging branches. The path they'd followed was separated from someone's garden by a low fence.

“So by talk, you meant you wanted to tell me off, right,” Neeshka started. Her voice was low but no less fast than usual, and before Cylle could interrupt, she started up once again. “Well, look, it – it doesn't have to be a thing, we don't have to talk about it at all, nothing like that, sorry I made it awkward, boss! It's just, just, I don't know, I thought after that night on the road – and I _know_ it was the wine, of course it was the wine, people don't just _do_ that, but I thought – I don't know what I thought.” she trailed off, kicked the dirt, and huffed. Cylle stared. “I figured I wanted to do it, so I did, but I shouldn't have, I guess. Sorry,” she added. Now she was refusing to even look at Cylle, interested in her toes as they scuffed the earth up further. She was acting so childish that Cylle wanted to laugh. She didn't. She'd been laughed at before for being so sincere and upset by other children in West Harbour, and it had stung every time, but back then her heart had never beat so fast and hard before as she tried to explain.

“Uh,” she said, cool and clear as ever. She cleared her throat, looked at her own toes and wished that she hadn't pinned her hair back so it could at least do her the decency of hiding her face. “That wasn't – no, that's not, I didn't want to tell you off.”

The air itself felt like it stilled with the cessation of movement. “No?”  
“No. No, um, no. I – if anything, I just wanted to know why. And to ask if I could – again – I mean-”

 

Her boots were in definite need of a clean, and would be in need of repair if they kept up their usual pace on anything but a road. Suddenly, she wondered how cobblers learned their trade, if it was a worthwhile skill to pick up for the future.

“You're being serious? No, you can't be. Don't – don't play pranks like this, it's not-”

“ _Pranks_?” the word exploded out of her before she could stop it. “I don't play _pranks_ , I'm not a kid anymore! And if I did, I wouldn't about something like _this_! Do you have any idea the kind of person I am, why you think I'd want to do something like that to someone – to make them feel so bad, I've seen it happen, why would I want to do it to you-!”

Neeshka was laughing. Cylle stopped mid-rant to adopt what she hoped was an angry expression, but it only made Neeshka laugh the harder. Her mirth did not let up for even a moment, until Cylle was forced to soften a little. “Sorry,” Neeshka gasped after a while. “Didn't- didn't think it was possible for you to even get angry...” she broke off to giggle some more, and Cylle folded her arms as she waited. She straightened, giggled again, wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I didn't want to be told off for it, I didn't – are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Cylle's answer was soft. “I feel like I should know why, but I don't. But it was nice – both times,” she added. “I liked it. And I'd like to do it again, I suppose. If that's okay. I've never really...” her words drifted off into a mumble, embarrassed still that she'd never played at kissing with anyone before. It had seemed like such a natural part of childhood for her friends, and yet no one had offered to play with her. Not that she had been interested, but it had still stung to be left out of that one crucial game that seemed to make everyone just that little bit more grown up than her.

“ _Never_?”

And there that feeling came flooding back once again: having missed out on things, still being so young despite having a little over twenty-two summers to her name, being so inept in the ways of her sword, her ability to read a map, and now this. She couldn't make her mouth move, shame overriding other processes, and shook her head instead. Her cheeks felt like they had caught aflame.  
“And you want – you don't – it doesn't feel wrong? You want to... keep on doing it?”  
Neeshka's words were coming much less fluent now, and much quieter, like she thought she might wake up at any moment, still in the castle ruins and much less brave. Cylle nodded.

“Me too.”


End file.
